


Mother

by maccom



Series: Perfect Strangers [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Amaurotine Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Angst and Feels, Canon Divergent, Consensual Sex, F/M, Female Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Flashbacks, Mental Health Issues, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rope Bondage, Semi-Public Sex, Unnamed Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Violence, Written pre 5.2 therefore is now, mental! health! is! a! medical! issue!, some Canon Dialogue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-05
Updated: 2019-12-06
Packaged: 2021-01-23 21:00:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 24,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21326608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maccom/pseuds/maccom
Summary: She asks him for a distraction - a few moments of his time - but Emet-Selch does not play nice.Following along with the events in 5.0, Emet-Selch finds himself torn between memories from his past and doubt for his future. Will he, or won't he?
Relationships: Minor or Background Relationship(s), Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch & Warrior of Light, Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch/Warrior of Light
Series: Perfect Strangers [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1571320
Comments: 66
Kudos: 379
Collections: Final Fantasy XIV - Emet-Selch x WoL Recommendations





	1. Rak'tika

Their first two meetings are tense, awkward things. The Scions do not trust him - as well they shouldn’t - and he does not want to waste time with them. _ She _ is the only one who considers his olive branch, the only one who looks the least intrigued by what he offers - _ she _is the only one who interests him. The Warrior of Light, traveler between shards, Ascian-killer, dragon rider, feller of Nidhogg, Alexander, and Omega, bane of primals and Garleans alike - 

She is much shorter than he pictured.

They never give her a chance to speak, never give her the space to move forward. He watches her, torn between amusement that one so powerful on a battlefield is lost in a group gathering, and disappointment that she will not speak over the others.

There will be time.

He will catch this daughter of Hydaelyn later.

  
*

He puts on a show in Rak’tika, throws his arms wide and gives himself over to memories of his most recent empire. The brutish Hyur is crude, as always, but Emet-Selch will not be goaded into an argument.

She remains quiet until the others walk ahead. “You irk them on purpose.”

“I suppose you would prefer I keep to the shadows, lurking about as quiet as a mouse. It’s a rather boring alternative, truth be told - it has been ever so long since I had the chance to play with mortals such as yourselves.” He pauses as he belatedly catches an implication in her words. “Do I not annoy you, hero?”

For the first time he sees the hint of a smile around her eyes. “Not yet.” She gazes up at the boughs above them, at the vibrant green canopy and the rays of blinding Light that pierce it, and he realizes he is watching her, smiling at her. There is something familiar to her - not her appearance, no, but a deeper part of her, as though he has known her before… 

“You are leering, Ascian.”

His eyes snap back to hers. There - just below the surface. An echo - a piece - a tiny spark he recognizes. Fragmented though her soul might be, just enough remains for him to discern a hint of someone he must once have known.

He renders his face blank, wipes any trace of familiarity from it before she sees, but there is a strange feeling in his chest, an odd coiling in his stomach. He watches her follow the Scions, her head held high even in as strange a place as this - as though the path is familiar, as though the world is just as welcoming as the one she calls home. Overconfidence, perhaps, but he thinks it rather well-earned. After all she has survived he doubts there is much that scares her.

Does he…?

Focusing more on her than the road ahead, he follows her deeper into Rak’tika.

*

He is not prepared for the misery that greets him in Fanow. Anger, sorrow, desperation, guilt - he reads all of it and more on the faces of those gathered around the poisoned Hrothgar. Admittedly he does not react well upon learning one of their number has perished - he has been lacking in sympathy ever since the Sundering - and it is the anger in the Warrior of Light’s dark eyes that motivates him to help.

He knows this is not a rational decision. The Miqo’te he sets out to save is powerful, canny, wise - should he leave her behind his chances would be greatly increased. 

And yet.

It goes off without a hitch, because of course it does - this is child’s play, a parlour trick; a snap of his fingers and the Miqo’te is saved, plucked from the Lifestream as easily as a grape from the vine. 

He made the Warrior of Light smile. Why does that matter to him?

He does not follow them back to Fanow, instead choosing to wander the nearby forest. It is a beautiful place, a strange land with cliffs, ravines, and trees large enough to be mountains. Having spent so many decades on the Source he has forgotten much of the beauty that exists on the Shards. He should do his best to see more of it - there is no telling how long each might have left.

A branch snaps behind him and he halts. What an unexpected development.

“I wanted to thank you.”

Just when he thought he’d had enough surprises for one day, the Warrior of Light has followed him into the wilds! That she should seek him out is strange; that she should do so alone makes him wonder. 

“It was not a difficult task,” he replies slowly, turning to face her. “A trifling bit of magic.”

“To you, perhaps, but to us - we would be much hindered without Y’shtola.”

He narrows his eyes. Though he recognizes this fact, it is odd for her to acknowledge it. “Are you not the Warrior of Light? Does this not depend entirely on you?”

“I am a small piece,” she says with a dismissive wave of her hand. “I am the hammer that hits the nail.”

“You sell yourself short.” Why is he defending her? “Does this analogy render me and mine the nail?”

“You haven’t given me a reason to hit you.”

_ Yet. _

Conversation should not be this easy. The words are on his tongue and he should not say them, he should say anything else, he should turn and leave, he should - 

“I shall have to try harder.”

She raises her eyebrows and he looks away, mentally cursing himself. He does not want to talk to her, to spend time with her, to _ flirt _with her. He should have self-control enough for that!

“I’ll be making my way back,” she says, a look in her eyes he cannot decipher. “I suppose we’ll see you after we destroy the Lightwarden.”

“I’ll find you.” It sounds like a promise, like something he’s committed to - and it is a surprise to discover he _ wants _to find her, to meet with her, to talk with her.

Is he so starved for companionship that he turns to _ Hydaelyn’s chosen_? Is he truly so great a fool?

Thinking of the words Elidibus would have for him were he here, Emet-Selch remains among the trees long after she departs.

*

The shock in her eyes when he admits he is tempered hits him harder than he’d expected it to. He’d believed they would have come to such a conclusion much earlier. 

Does he think too highly of them?

Does he think too highly of her?

She finds him after, in the winding pathways and caverns of the Qitana Ravel. He has retreated to a dead-end, a dark cave branching off the main path, with the hopes of collecting his thoughts. Seeing those old murals has awoken memories he buried deep; though he had recalled them for the Scions as diligently as a schoolmaster dictates their lessons he would be lying if he said they did not have an affect on him.

The nostalgia and sorrow weigh heavy.

He watches her rush to him, watches the expression on her face. She is angry, yes, but there is disappointment there too, and knowing that he has managed to let her down rattles him. 

When had he started trying to please her?

Words do not come easily to her. She glares at him, fists opening and closing, and he can only stare back. The fault lies with him - why does it always lie with him - and he has nothing to add, no defense to make. He spoke the truth - what more does she want?

“I am not tempered.”

Giddy relief washes through him. Her disappointment lies not with him. 

“Would it be such a bad thing?” Seeing the rage in her eyes, he quickly changes tactics. “Zodiark and Hydaelyn do not temper their followers as lesser primals are wont to do. We act in their stead, yes, but we are fully capable of rational thought. I imagine there are boundaries your Mother has set upon you, restrictions or guidelines you cannot work beyond, but all your actions are entirely your own.”

Her eyes widen. Some of the anger leaves her; she mouths three words that he cannot decipher, but when she looks to him again he can tell something has changed.

“If you are tempered by Him - and I tempered by Her - then us working together…” She shakes her head. “Our goals are not the same. Any aid you provide furthers His cause.”

“Who is to say? My restrictions are somewhat loose.” He tilts his head. “I’ve upset you.”

“One always hopes to parley,” she replies quietly, her dark eyes distant. “To convince the other to turn aside. To achieve peace without resorting to conflict.” Her focus snaps to him. “It seems I’ve held on to false hope longer than was warranted.”

“You hoped for me to - what? Change my mind?”

“Evil men are not born so. It stands to reason they may not die so, either.”

His smile is lopsided, though the feeling in his chest is beyond compare. “Ah, _ redemption_. You have chosen a difficult path, hero. May I ask why?” At her silence he shrugs his shoulders. “Two worlds stand on the brink of calamity. Enemies chase you on all sides. Why does my salvation play even a small part in the theatre of your mind?”

“We are alike, are we not? Both with great power, great responsibility - both somewhat apart from our peers.” She looks away, suddenly uncomfortable. “No matter. I have wasted enough of your time.”

“I would not call it a waste.” 

The smile she gives him...! He turns his head so she cannot see the humour in his eyes. 

Voices suddenly echo through the caves; the Scions are seeking her. Their eyes meet and there is understanding there, the unspoken agreement that the others need not know of this conversation. 

He watches her leave, the strange feeling in his chest seeming almost to bubble below the surface - like laughter contained, like a scream swallowed, like keening silenced.

What is this?

_ Why_?


	2. Pendants

He finds her in the Crystarium markets late that evening. Their eyes meet across the expanse and she immediately changes course towards him, her arms wrapped around packages and bags of fresh purchases. He waits above her, on the rise leading to the Pendants, and as the crowd mills around them he realizes he is excited to see her, like she is a true companion, or - 

\- or an old friend.

“You are bold to show yourself here,” she says by way of greeting. She shifts her packages higher on her hip as she looks him over, raising an eyebrow at his Garlean garb.

“They do not know me,” he replies easily, waving her worries away. “You are the only one to give me a second look.”

“Lucky me.” 

Sarcasm, or…?

“Did you come calling for a purpose, or are you content to watch me shop?”

There is a smile around her eyes, something neither malicious nor bitter. Given a reason she smiles easily, and he finds himself wanting to provide her with reasons. “I had thought to gaze at the stars, and here I find myself distracted.”

Her lips twitch. “Out with it, Ascian: why are you here?”

“I wished to speak with you. Alone.”

If there is a hint of shadow in her eyes, a tremor of foreboding, he pretends not to notice. “Follow, then.”

They walk in silence up the Pendant’s winding staircase, he following behind. Few notice either of them: this world does not yet know what manner of hero passes among them - or what manner of villain - and they are merely two more bodies in the crowd. 

While Lahabrea loved playing the mortal man and Elidibus detests it, Emet-Selch finds himself drawn into the spectacle of mortals’ lives. He becomes the part he plays, and plays it well: he has spent decades as one character, embroiled in the minutiae of their lives as though it was truly his own.

As strange as it may be to walk through the First in his Garlean robes of state, this is the body he knows best. He is Emperor no longer but the trappings remain, and it is equal parts freeing and ridiculous: he is anonymous yet gaudy, unknown yet unalike, one of them yet not - not at all, not a tiny bit. He is the wolf among the hens, the god-come-down-to-play, and this Warrior of Light - this other unknown face - is all that stands between them and their annihilation.

It isn’t guilt he’s feeling, not exactly - it is something more akin to regret than anything that renders him the party to blame. What comes is not his fault; it is inevitable. He has a role to play, and he shall do so without hesitation.

He follows her into her room, taking in the common decor in one cool glance. Nothing in this space sparks of her; nothing resonates. It is all of the First and therefore temporary.

She is the only thing in the room worth watching.

She drops her purchases on the table, spilling gear and materials over the wooden surface, before turning to him with her hands on her hips. “Lest I regret this, please - speak your mind.”

“You are very trusting.” He looks pointedly between her and the door, which he conveniently blocks.

“You are not the type.”

His mind stutters. “The type…?”

“To ask for my time and then attack me when I grant it.” She leans back, resting against the table, and crosses one ankle over the other. “Besides - you know what I’ve done. What I am. If you wish to dance, the risk is on you.”

So confident! So cocky! He admires the fire in her, though he doubts she understands what _he_ is. Though she bested Lahabrea in battle multiple times, _ his _power is much different.

She would not take him so easily.

“You said we are alike,” he says quietly, taking a few slow steps towards her. That flair of her soul - that piece he knows - lurks below the surface, frustrating him in its elusivity. “Why? Because of our power?”

The look she gives him surprises him; why does she pity him? “Nay, Ascian. Moreso a result of that power. As I said, it sets us apart, renders us different from the rest. It can be lonely from our view.”

“What would you know of loneliness?” Bitterness wells within him unbidden; he doesn't mean to direct his emotions her way but she caught him unaware, pried directly into a gap in his armour. That she should spy it so quickly unnerves him; has he become so obvious?

When he gathers himself - contains himself - he finds her watching him with a calculating look. 

She speaks before he can. “I know the pain of continuing on after others fall. I know the gaps left behind, the silence that once was full of life, and the courage needed to walk alone.” She moves towards him, narrowing the gap. “I know the strength needed to see one’s task through to the end, no matter the consequences.” He makes to interrupt and she holds up a hand. “My journey is short compared to yours, I know. The pains I have felt are miniscule compared to yours - but that does not invalidate them. I, too, have found a way to carry on.”

“For those you have lost,” he murmurs, and then sighs. The anger and indignation drains out of him, leaving him cool and emptied - a void, a gap, an immensely tired soul. “My apologies, hero.”

“My understanding, Ascian.” She is much closer now, and there is a look in her eyes he finds he cannot break away from - 

Is that...

“I have an offer in mind,” she murmurs, beginning to circle around him. He feels like prey caught and cornered, and he lets her continue, lets her play this out. “You and I will never be friends - uneasy companions at best.” The lightness of her tone takes away any sting the words may have. “That does not mean we cannot aid each other.”

“You have something in mind?” He is still as ice as she walks around him, caught somewhere between tension and the barest sliver of excitement.

The look in her eyes - 

It cannot mean - 

Her fingers graze his sleeve by the tips, and it is like a bolt of lightning, a blast of heat, an awakening - the void within him is suddenly filled.

She moves behind him. “Distract me.” Circling, circling, the tips of her fingers trailing along his robes. “Entertain me.” Passing in front, her eyes downcast, purposefully avoiding his gaze. “Exist with me, and I’ll do all the same for you.” Her footsteps stop behind him. “What say you?”

He finds his tongue, forces it into speech. “You would trust an Ascian?”

“You would trust the Warrior of Light?” she counters, laughter in her voice. “This is a partnership I offer - a truce within these walls. Out there - and at the end of all this - we are who we are, and we play the roles destined for us. In here -” Her hands on his hips, pressing, holding, grounding. “We are whoever we wish to be.”

Heart beating loud in his ears, he licks dry lips. He wants what she offers, oh yes, he wants this chance. He cannot remember the last time he had such a release, cannot remember the last time hands touched him with a gentle purpose.

But he - he is not gentle.

“I do not play nicely, hero,” he murmurs, closing his eyes against the temptation. “You know not what you ask.”

Her laughter surprises him; he opens his eyes and turns to her. Her cheeks are flushed and his breath catches as a wave of heat pulses through his abdomen. His hands are suddenly pushing her back - back - back until she hits the wall. He rests his forearm against the brick and leans over her, keeps his other hand to himself by willpower alone. If he touches her - 

If he trusts her - 

If he goes along with her -

But will she…

“You assume I want to be coddled.” That whisper, that voice! Shivers run down his spine. “Catch me, Ascian. Catch me, tie me, do as you please.” One hand on his chest, right over his heart. “Catch me before I fly away.”

His hand grabs her wrist - hard, unyielding. He cannot concentrate. “_You know not_.”

“Teach me, then. You think me weak, unwilling, unprepared?” She leans toward him as her voice drops. “I have played these games before, Emet-Selch. I know what I ask - do you know what you want?”

The lust within him is building to a crescendo, taunted and forged by her words. Twice he gave her a chance to turn aside, to recall her offer. Twice she pressed onwards.

He is not one for third chances.

Slowly he moves his mouth to her ear, keeping his grip firm around her wrist. This is a risk - this is irrational - this goes against everything he has fought for, stood for, lived for - 

But does he not deserve to feel alive? To taste joy, excitement, pleasure? Does he not deserve a moment for himself?

“You will listen?”

“Yes.”

He lets go of her wrist, dips his hand beneath the flimsy cloth shirt she acquired in the Ravel, cups one breast as his thumb flicks her nipple. “You will follow orders?”

“Yes.”

“You will tell me to stop, should I take you too far?”

She tilts her head back to meet his gaze. He sees the answer in her eyes, sees the challenge and recognizes it.

Yes, she will, but she doubts he can take her there.

“Foolish girl,” he murmurs.

That spark of her soul, ancient and unknown, inspires one more risk. “If you should wish for me to stop -” he croons, pressing nearer to her, “- you need only say ‘Hades’.”

*

_ “Hades!” Laughter, shock, and a touch of admonishment colour her voice. “Not here!” _

_ He can barely kiss her from grinning, but he manages it with a laugh, angles his head just so to reach her lips without their masks catching. “They will not hear us.” _

_ “Nevermind hearing us; they need only open the door and - oh!” The scolding dies on her tongue as he lifts her onto a desk and kisses her again. Her hands grab at his robes and drag him towards her, her actions belying her words. “In a classroom, Hades - of all places!” _

_ He pauses, eyes on hers, and waits. She stares back, but does not say the word. His grin earns him a smack, but he can’t resist - for a moment he truly thought she’d wanted him to stop. _

_ There has to be a first time for everything. _

_*_

Their first time is slow, steady, careful. He conjures dark ropes from aether, ties them around her wrists, her ankles, her torso. He weaves them, knots them, wraps them round her like a gift bound and tied, all the while leaving tantalizing glimpses of skin to see and touch. She is quiet under his hands; she watches him work without a word. 

When he is sure the knots will hold he takes a step back to admire his handiwork. Her dark eyes follow him as he moves to the side of the bed, removes his gloves, and leans over to softly swipe at the wetness gathered between her legs. She gasps as her whole body tightens, shivering, but she is aware enough to follow his hand, to watch him delicately lick every finger clean.

“All for me,” he murmurs, and enjoys hearing her whimper. “Good girl.”

*

_ “Good girl,” he says with a gasp, dropping beside her on the bed. A tired flick of his fingers dispels the ropes that bind her and she rolls towards him. _

_ “You were quick this evening,” she remarks as she rubs her wrists, the marks still fresh in her skin. _

_ He pauses, unsure how she feels about that. Her tone is bland - is that critique, or compliment? “I thought you might need the rest - your examination is early tomorrow, and I did not wish to distract you -” The rest of his words are lost as she kisses him. “Ah.” _

_ “You’re beginning to care about me, Hades,” she says, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “And I thought you were only in it for the fun.” _

_ “I am! As we discussed!” How does she always know how to get under his skin? “I was only being considerate.” _

_ Her finger flicks his nose and he recoils, blinking. “I appreciate that. Would you consider something else as well?” _

_ He covers his nose with his hand and glares at her. “What?” _

_ Her smile is all teeth. “Next time I tie the ropes.” _

_*_

He had not intended to stay the night, but he finds he cannot leave her as he begins to untie the ropes - not as she is, not shivering, exhausted, _ used_. There is a process to this kind of game, and he would not be a very good player if he ignored what comes after. He releases each knot with care, rubbing warm hands over every indentation in her skin before taking her in his arms in bed.

“What would your Mother think of you?” he teases gently as she curls against his pale chest.

“She’d think me tired,” she mumbles back. If she has any aversion to him staying she gives no sign; she is asleep before he even thinks to ask.

He tells himself this is just for the night, tells himself it’s the decent thing to do, tells himself he is still her enemy - 

\- but he kisses the top of her head regardless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is going to get pretty self-indulgent fyi 8)


	3. Lakeland

It is intended to be a distraction. It is intended to be about sex.

He is not supposed to actually _ like _her.

*

She wakes him the next morning, her wandering hands coaxing him to consciousness, to rise, and he has little reason to stop her. Eyes closed, he lets her play with him, lets her continue her ministrations under the covers as he gives himself over to pleasure.

She is not the first woman to admire him, to desire him regardless of ideology or politics. He has played this role before: he is no stranger to wearing different masks behind closed doors or visiting beds in secret. Why not? If it harms no one and he has time to spare, he has no aversion to this kind of intimacy.

Still, she is different from the others. Not because of what she wants or her willingness to play his games, but because of her own power, her own status - that Amaurotian soul, seven times rejoined, renders her problematic. Not impossible to deal with should it come to that, but she could hurt him if he gave her reason to.

He expects...

She replaces her hands with her mouth and he groans, tenses, throws back his head as her tongue slides along him. Her hair is soft between his fingers, smooth against his palm as he holds her in place. 

“Imagine if the Scions could see you now,” he murmurs, his voice low and gruff with morning sleepiness. Her nails dig into his thigh, the only sign she gives that she has heard him, and he cannot stop from grinning. “Have they heard you beg, hero?”

She moans, a sound she quickly cuts off, but it is enough to alert him, to give him ideas, to plant a seed.

What a wonderful development.

Alarms stop them both. They freeze in place as the Crystarium’s defensive alarum blares throughout the city, impossible to miss and impossible to misunderstand.

They are under attack. 

She throws the covers off them and makes to jump from the bed, but he anticipates her move. As the incessant ringing tears through the room he catches her by one wrist and pulls her back, rolling on top of her and pinning her in place.

“_Please_,” she whispers, and it isn’t the same kind of _ please _that she’d breathed the night before. Fear widens her eyes, pales her skin, quickens her breathing - not fear of him, no, but fear for what those alarms might mean. He watches her eyes as he slowly understands.

If he keeps her here people will die. Every moment she is off the field is another victory to whoever is attacking.

That is not a game he can stomach.

He backs off of her without a word. She is still for a moment, both surprised and hesitant - as if he is fooling her, as if he could not be so kind - but when he crosses his arms over his chest she vaults from the bed. Nimble fingers find the clothing he’d deprived her of the night before and she dresses quickly. He watches her, unsatisfied, naked, sucking his teeth with his tongue. 

There is a line to cross somewhere and he cannot discern where to stand. Given a choice he would retreat for the day, leave this battle to the Scions and return when they have cleaned up the mess, but he feels an uncomfortable responsibility to stay. 

_Why?_

She pauses on her way out the door with staff in hand. Her face is pained, confused: he can only imagine the emotions she feels. Guilt? Gratitude? Worry? He waves his fingers at her, shooing her out the door, and she swallows what words she might have for him and leaves in silence.

She does not dare ask him for help.

He dresses and follows her. He cloaks himself in invisibility and watches from shadow as they raise the shield over the Crystarium, as sin eaters rail against it, as they make plans for the defense of Lakeland.

Unseen and unheard, he joins the Scions on their journey from Fort Jobb to the west.

Understanding she is the Warrior of Light is one thing; seeing what that means is something else entirely. She is not a mere healer, an afterthought to mend wounds and save the dying: she is a leader, one who wields hope and courage just as surely as staff and magic. The people of Lakeland rally behind her, follow her, stand in awe of her as sin eater after sin eater falls at her feet.

No wonder his brethren had been bested by her.

Emet-Selch is not drawn to her because he wants to corrupt that spirit - he happens to find it just as inspiring as the mortals on the field. He _ wants _ to join her! He _ wants _to stand behind her, to march with her, to raise a blade and charge against whatever stands in her path.

Instead he watches, and waits, and smothers sin eaters’ aether with his own.

*

_ “You intend to wait forever?” _

_ He opens one eye to see Hythlodaeus standing at the foot of his couch. “Leave.” _

_ His longtime friend bends down and lifts Hades’s feet off the couch cushion, nimbly sliding into the vacant spot before letting Hades’s heels rest on his thighs. “No, I don’t think I will.” _

_ “_ ** _Leave_ ** _.” _

_ “You, dear friend, are being ridiculous. You must speak with her.” _

_ “I must not do anything.” _

_ The other man tilts his head back to stare at the vaulted ceiling above them. “I daresay you have a brilliant plan to resolve this situation, something so clever even I cannot discern the make of it.” _

_ Hades does not reply - which is answer enough. _

_ “At least tell me what worries you so. If I’m going to break your confidence and tell her where to find you, I’d rather be able to explain exactly why you are an ass.” _

_ “With friends like these…” He groans and covers his face with his hands. It seems he has no choice but to embrace his humiliation. “I think - I _ ** _know _ ** _ I’m in love with her.” _

_ “So does all of Amaurot, but do continue.” _

_ His mind stutters, but he forces himself to finish his thought. “As the new Emet-Selch, I must dedicate myself wholly to the people. I have a purpose - a calling, one could say - and it is all-encompassing. How am I to make time for both the Convocation and her? How am I to split my attention between the two?” _

_ Hythlodaeus sighs explosively. “Do not tell me you believe you cannot arrange your life for both. You are excellent with time management and relatively clever when it comes to breaking rules. I give it two weeks until you’ve tied her to the Convocation table and had your way with her.” _

_ It takes Hades a moment to determine whether he is still breathing; another long, empty silence passes before he finds his voice. “Ah.” _

_ “Neither of you are subtle and I, honestly, am excellent at reading social cues.” A moment’s pause. “The rope tied round your bedposts is fairly obvious, Hades.” _

_ “Oh.” _

_ “She loves you too, you know. She is not going to let you choose between her and the Convocation, and quite frankly I think you’re an idiot for assuming you have to. If you are busier, she will make time. If you are away, she will understand. If you try to end this relationship, she may kill you.” _

_ “This is the last time I go to you for advice.” _

_ “That is a blatant lie and you know it.” His friend pats his feet. “Keeping this a secret only hurts the both of you. Celebrate with her - you know she’ll be overjoyed.” _

_ “Will she? Truly?” _

_ “Sometimes, Hades, you are a fool. Go find her!” _

*

He finds her in the western fort after the Eulmoran airships depart. Rain has soaked them both, plastering clothing and hair against cold, drenched skin. He drops his glamour near the high tower and she runs to him, the naked relief in her eyes catching him completely by surprise.

Is he not just as relieved to see her whole?

Ignoring the blood and gore that cover her, he takes her in his arms and drags her close to his chest, pulls her to the back of the tower. He can’t explain the emotions running through him, can’t put a name to the sudden need to be close to her. It has been so long since he felt anything so strongly, and to feel such a mixture with _ her _\- he does not know what to make of it.

When her hands touch his hips the emotions change: it is a fierce need to _ be with her_, to comfort her, to celebrate her survival, to finish what she started that morning. She mirrors his movements, her hands digging at his own clothing as he pulls at hers. He is kissing her, biting her, pressing her closer to the tower wall as his hands rush to clear her skirts from her thighs. The rain and wind fade into the background as his need overpowers everything else. Her hands are everywhere, fighting with his buckles, his ties, his belt. She matches him in eagerness, in single-minded determinedness.

He never ordered. He never asked. She reaches for him just as he reaches for her, wordlessly, their intentions known to each other by sight alone. As he slides into her and her legs wrap around his back he realizes she is murmuring his name, whispering it in his ear, gasping it with every thrust. 

What a thing, to be wanted. What a powerful, mystifying, intoxicating feeling.

This is a mistake. The rules they set were within her room, within a space they could keep seperate from the world. Out here is riskier, not only because they might be seen, but - 

If he is willing to break one rule - 

Where does he stop?

Where does he draw the line?

Not here. Not now. Now they might as well be alone, hidden by shadows and sheets of rain, masked by thunder and that freezing, howling wind. As long as he focuses on her - on the warmth of her, the feel of her, the way she looks when she tilts her head back and closes her eyes, the sound she makes when he moves faster, harder - as long as she is the only thing in his mind, what does the rest of it matter?

She finishes before him, clamping her hand over her mouth to stop from crying out, but he _ feels _it, feels her shudder, and as she throws back her head he slams his palm against the brick behind her and allows himself his release.

Did he intend to moan her name?

Did he intend to make it so personal?

_ It was intended to be about sex. _

He kisses her softly, briefly, and her dark eyes stare back at him, hot and heavy and taken by surprise. She had not expected her name.

She had not expected him to be gentle.

Cursing himself for his weakness, he pulls away from her, lets his robes cover himself as she stands on shaking legs. Her thighs are slick and he, embarrassed, waves away what remains with a flick of magic.

There is a spark of anger in her eyes when she realizes what he’s done. She prods his chest with one finger, a small touch of pain that surprises him.

“Next time - leave it.”

He watches mutely as she walks away, vanishing into the dark sheets of rain with her head held high and her skirts only slightly askew. 

Next time…?

*

_ “Next time _ ** _she _ ** _ wants to be the one to take the lead.” _

_ “To be fair, outside of the bedroom she already does.” _

_ Hades glares across the table at his friend. “Who wants to be fair?” _

_ Hythlodaeus takes a sip from his mug before replying. Rain hammers at the window beside them; the entire room is muted, grey. “So she wants to be in control. Though I fear delving too deeply into your bedroom games, I can ascertain this is new to you both. Surprising, of course, as I’d assumed your repertoire consisted of every known position and game, but if your own fear holds you back -” _

_ “It isn’t fear.” _

_ “Enlighten me then - though without the particulars, if you please.” _

_ Hades makes a face. If the embarrassment doesn’t kill him, his friend’s japery might. “I have _ ** _always _ ** _ taken the lead.” _

_ “Are you sure this is not fear?” _

_ “I do not know!” Frustration makes him lift his mug as though to throw it; he forces himself to let it go, to splay his long fingers on the smooth table between them. “I want to give her what she asks for, but to put myself in such a position -” _

_ “Please do not describe it.” _

_ He narrows his eyes, takes a deep breath, and forces himself to continue. “It requires trust.” _

_ The humour leaves Hythlodaeus’s eyes. “Do you not trust her?” _

_ “I do! Of course I do. This is merely - merely another kind of trust.” _

_ His friend leans forward. “What is it you fear will go wrong? That you will enjoy it?” _

_ “I -” He knows his face is turning red under the mask, knows his discomfort is obvious, but as much as he wants to end the conversation he must work through this. “Yes. That I will - embarrass myself, somehow.” In his mind’s eye he pictures himself begging - pleading - and cringes. He won’t tell Hythlodaeus _ ** _that_**_. _

_ “Ah. Ridiculous, of course.” _

_ “What?” _

_ “She loves you, does she not? Trusts you? Has partnered with you many times over the years? She knows you, Hades, in ways I am thankful I do not, and that invariably means she knows what you enjoy and what you dislike. She is not about to flip your roles completely.” _

_ “You presume -” _

_ “You fabricate! You dance through worst-case scenarios as though life never goes your way.” Hythlodaeous sits back in his chair with an exasperated smile. “My friend, do you truly believe she does not understand how closely you hold your pride? The games you play with her will not be the same games she plays with you - and I beg that you never tell me any of them in more detail.” _

_ The anxiety that has been building in his chest seems to evaporate, lifting the dread from his shoulders. The uncertainty and hesitation do not disappear completely, but viewed from that perspective his worries do seem less likely. _

_ “You believe her your bonded soul?” _

_ It is a brave question to ask, one not voiced lightly, and Hades hesitates before answering. They have been partners for mere years, have known each other for only a handful before that, and to make such a claim so early may be rash - yet his heart knows the truth. Whether or not he puts these feelings into words, he can imagine no future without her. _

_ Hythlodaeus ducks his head to hide his smile. “Ah, you lucky fool.” _

*

He was a fool, surely, to seek her out in public, but watching her rally the people had awoken something in him he long believed dormant. In another life, another world, another era, he had watched someone else do the same.

It feels an impossibly long time ago.

Elidibus would tell him to let her go. The Emissary would warn him he is dangerously close to straying from the path, would blabber on about balance and responsibilities and the role he is destined to play, but his colleague is a world away, embroiled in his own schemes. What Emet-Selch does is entirely his own business. 

And he intends to make her his business.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *pounds fists on table* GIVE US MORE HYTHLODAEUS, SE! I need more ancient BFF tales in my life.
> 
> Thanks, as always, for reading!


	4. Crystarium

It is hard to speak with the Scions that evening in the tower, hard to keep up the facade with her in the room. He barely looks at her, barely acknowledges her even though he can sense her gaze upon him. 

He knows he would give them away were he to meet her eyes.

When the meeting is done he follows them out of the Ocular; the Scions take the stairs upwards but she descends instead. He listens to her footsteps echoing around him and cannot convince himself to leave her, cannot convince himself to break away from this temptation. With his heart pounding in his ears he follows her down the blue and gold staircase, putting the mystery of this Allagan marvel out of his mind.

He finds her a few floors down, her hands on the railing as she looks up at the long, empty space within the inner tower. Slowly he moves behind her, hands gliding along her arms and back.

“This is a risk.” Her voice is the barest breath of sound.

“You know what to say if you want me to leave.”

She spins to face him, to grab his coat in her hands, and the look in her eyes - 

Desire. Heat. And a whisper, a hint of something more.

In the impossible stillness at the bottom of Syrcus Tower, he whispers one word.

“Kneel.”

*

_ “Kneel,” she says, a look in her eyes that sets fire to his veins _

_ He drops, his bound wrists held in front of him. She had disrobed him earlier, had taken away the only shield he might have had, and he feels painfully open - embarrassingly revealed. Though she has seen every part of him, this feels far different than any time before. _

_ He has agreed to her request: this time she holds the reins. Though he trusts her, _ ** _loves _ ** _ her, he still fights the urge to rebel against her. He knows not what to expect, and that uncertainty eats at him. _

_ What will she have him do? _

_ She walks towards him, sliding her robes from her shoulders to the floor as she advances. Her bare hips sway back and forth and he licks dry lips, simultaneously excited and terrified. Is this what she feels when he is in charge? Does her heart beat so fiercely, her breath seem so impossible to catch? She stops in front of him, her bare thighs pressed against his chest, and he tilts his head back to look up at her. Her fingers curl through his long hair before resting against the base of his skull. _

_ “I thought we’d start small,” she says, her voice husky. “An appetizer.” She leans against him as she lifts one leg, resting her thigh over his shoulder. “Be a good boy, will you?” _

_ His fear and nerves melt away, replaced by giddy excitement. He will be the best he can possibly be, the best she’s ever had - anything, for her. _

_** Everything,** for her. _

*

Everything is different.

Everything depends on him pretending nothing has changed.

“You aren’t at all like Lahabrea.”

They are in her room again, so late at night it is almost morning. He has untied her, let her stretch her legs, and she’s returned to the bed to lie beside him. He assumed she would sleep but she has leaned against him, pressed her naked chest against his side under the covers. Idly he runs his fingers through her hair, enjoying the sensation as he muses over her words.

“Being alive is a notable improvement.”

She doesn’t rise to his bait. “He treated us like to fodder. He seemed determined to toy with us before destroying us. You, however, are less a villain and more a moody observer.”

He is not sure if his pride should be wounded or not. “I consider myself a shepherd, rather than a passive audience.”

“Rendering us the flock, hm?” She is silent a moment, though her fingers trail absentmindedly over his stomach. “I would do better: ‘puppeteer’ is more apt a title. If both the Garleans and the Allagans have you to thank for their rise to power I can only imagine the lengths to which you poked and pried, manoeuvering your pieces into place. A shepherd is a guide: you, Ascian, had a plan all along.”

Hearing himself described so is more than a touch unsettling, though he cannot deny the truth in her words. “And Lahabrea? What would you consider him?”

“Nothing near so subtle. He seemed more like to a madman than to anyone capable of creating a cohesive plan. If Gaius had not been so focused on the goal he would have realized the risks.”

“You believe what I do here is not the same? That you have considered every risk?”

She shifts to look at him, her dark eyes cool. “Where Lahabrea would move openly, you slink in shadow. There is an endgame to your plan I’ve yet to discern.”

“Mayhap I am merely seeing where the cards fall.” Though he teases her, he can’t help but be unnerved. It is easy to forget who she is in this space, easy to convince himself she is not the Warrior of Light - but would he be as enchanted were she anything else? “Mayhap I am placing my trust in you.”

She snorts. “I won’t pretend to know everything, but that is a tale I will not believe. Zodiark would not allow it.”

“Am I to assume your Mother would not allow the reverse?”

She stills, her wandering fingers freezing over his skin. Her uncertainty is obvious, yet he is not pleased. He does not want this to be a conversation about faith and gods; he knows that is a divide they cannot cross. Guilt for spoiling their evening accosts and confuses him - what is there to spoil? He should not even be here!

“Nevermind,” he murmurs, hoping to drop the topic. The rope marks on her wrists have almost faded; he has only a few more minutes before he can make his excuses and leave.

Her fingers finally resume their wandering, loosely tracing his muscles as her mind refocuses. “You are not what I expected, Ascian.”

“Likewise, hero.”

A moment’s silence, and then, “You’ll stay again?”

He shouldn’t. There is no reason to. No reason except…

Rather than consider that thought overlong, he shifts lower in the bed until he is comfortably lying flat. She curls closer to him, soft and warm against his side, and he does not resist the temptation to wrap one arm around her.

He will allow himself this simple comfort - for one more night, at least.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shortest chapter, still took forever. Welp!


	5. Amh Araeng

_ He slides silently into the back of the auditorium and takes a seat in the deserted back row. From his position he looks out over near a hundred hooded heads, all focused on the instructor far below him. _

_ It is impossible not to watch her. She has such energy - such conviction! - and when she’s excited she moves her arms in sweeping, powerful gestures. She runs this way and that, using her body and her voice to illustrate the importance of her lecture, and though he cannot see her face he knows she is smiling. _

_ Someone tugs on his sleeve and he turns; a runner from the Convocation kneels behind him. He smothers his displeasure at being found and lowers his head. _

_ “The Emissary calls for you, sir, as soon as you are able.” _

_ Elidibus, that worrywort. Hades makes a face behind his mask. “Thank you. I will depart forthwith.” _

_ The runner bows and leaves, scurrying out of the auditorium. Hades remains a moment longer, Elidibus and the Convocation momentarily forgotten as he watches the woman he loves. _

*

He watches her from the shadows, cloaked yet again in invisibility. She and the blond Hyur, Lahabrea’s old puppet, are playing as miners in the depths of Amh Araeng, digging through mostly-abandoned caves in the hopes of finding some substance they need. 

He should not be here. There is no reason for him to struggle under the harsh Light of this desert, to flounder beneath sun and aether. He could be anywhere else, doing _ anything _else.

A grimace distorts his features. For eons he has been content to withdraw from society and sleep, but after sharing her bed he no longer finds solace in solitude. His home is too empty and his thoughts too loud when he is apart from her. It is not infatuation that stirs him, not some temporary flight of fancy but a feeling far more powerful, something which stirred back in Lakeland and now has churned into a maelstrom he is not prepared to withstand. What started as a distraction has ultimately waylaid him, blindsided him, and now…

Why _ now__?_ Why _ her__?_ What makes her different? He has bedded countless women over the eons and none of them has enraptured him to such a degree. Is it her Amaurotian soul? Is it the power she wields, the games she plays, the challenge she offers him?

He has no idea and very little time.

They will find the fourth Lightwarden and slay it. Her soul, already drenched in Light aether, will begin to fracture. 

She will begin to turn.

Guilt crushes him, suffocates him, smothers him. That soul he admires cannot withstand what comes next, no matter how he tries to convince himself otherwise. 

Her voice rings out through the mine, followed by Lahabrea’s puppet’s happy reply. They have found what they need and will move on to the next step of their plan, inching ever closer to that horrendous fate.

If he was a better person - 

No. Emet-Selch knows what he is. He has come too far to turn aside now.

“For those I could not save,” he murmurs. “For those I - I -” He cringes and clenches his hands into fists. Though his white gloves are spotless, his mind's eye covers them in blood.

More alone than ever before, he watches her from shadow.

*

_ He watches her, knowing the expression on his face is silly and not caring in the slightest. He sits at their kitchen counter, feet hooked onto the rung of his stool and chin propped on his hands. She is outside, working in their courtyard garden, and he can just glimpse her through the tall windows opposite him. Her singing carries into the kitchen, loud and brass and very rarely in tune. _

_ His hand reaches inside his robe, to the chest pocket he has touched multiple times within the last hour. A small wooden box rests within, a box of his own creation, and inside… _

_ Sure she is otherwise detained, he slips the box into his hand and opens it. A small silver band rests within: simple, elegant, perfectly sized. He stares at it, as he has been wont to do for weeks, but as the sound of her singing increases in volume he snaps it shut and hides it away, attempting to look convincingly innocent. _

_ One day he will find the courage. _

*

He finds her at the bottom of Malikah’s Well. The Lightwarden is dead, its aether consumed, and the Scions are congratulating themselves on a job well done. 

He wants to shake them, to take them all by the shoulders and turn them towards her, to force them to truly _ look at her _ that they might see how close she is to her end. How can they not know? How can they not understand that no being can absorb aether in that quantity, no matter their power? How can they continue to encourage this?

He wants someone to blame, someone other than himself, and his mind jumps to the Exarch. That man _has _to know what this is doing to her - he cannot have planned all of this without seeing the resolution. Why does he continue to mislead her? 

Why does Emet-Selch do the same?

She sees him on the way out and makes an excuse, asks the Scions to go on without her. Light pulses within her as she approaches and he is furious, frustrated, frail.

He cannot blame the Exarch without blaming himself.

“One left,” she says, an odd look in her eyes. 

He turns away, unable to see her without seeing the Light within. Nausea chokes him.

“I don’t know if we’re doing what you want us to, or if you’re very good at hiding your disappointment,” she continues. “From our point of view we have almost saved the First - yet here you are, encouraging us.”

Guilt, dread, and misery combine within him. “You may not find the last one,” he says blandly. 

They both know she will.

“Emet-Selch -”

“Don’t.” His hands are fists, his jaw clenched, every muscle tense. “Please.”

The silence stretches until she steps towards him, forces his hand open, and slips her fingers between his. Mutely he allows her to lead him through the winding mine, past land bleached by aether and onwards, rising until they finally see the night sky. She stops at the bottom of a deep pit and stares upwards, her hand still in his.

Unable to do anything else, he gazes up with her. The stars are so, so bright against that curtain of darkness, like beacons lighting the way home, like fireflies held static. He knows all of Amh Araeng will be posed just as they are, heads tilted back and eyes wide. Though he has seen many lifetimes of night skies across the Source and all its Shards, there is still a moment of wonder - a moment when even he feels infinitely small.

“Beautiful,” she says quietly, and when he turns he discovers she is looking at him. She has caught him off-guard, flustered him, brought a flush to his cheeks. 

Flattery, he realizes, will indeed get her somewhere.

“What would it take to convince you to leave this shard alone?”

The change of topic catches him by surprise; he can only stare at her as speech leaves him completely. Though he doesn’t say a word, he sees the recognition in her eyes, the realization, and the sadness that follows.

The power of Zodiark’s will weighs heavy even now. He has not had a choice since he created the god that tempered him.

“I’m sorry I asked,” she murmurs, her gaze back on the stars. Her dark eyes reflect the lights far, far above, like tiny pools holding eternity. “I forget there are things beyond our power to change - even yours, as impossible as that seems.”

He schools his face into a mask, imperceptible and impenetrable. The Light within her is contained but not calm; it flares unpredictably, tempting him to flinch away as that power seeks to free itself from its vessel. 

“Hero -”

“No.” She keeps her eyes on the sky above. “Whatever apology you offer - keep it. It is my fault for asking.” She sighs, a resigned, tired sound that tears at him. “Sometimes I cannot help but wonder what price you are willing to pay to restore what was lost - but I believe I know your answer.”

What price?

_ Everything._

But - 

After all this time?

Everything he’s given - everything he’s done - everything he’s sacrificed - 

_ It has to be for something. _

“Stay with me,” she says, her fingers tightening around his. “Stay in this moment - for a little longer.”

He can offer her nothing else save this. He pushes every emotion down, away, as far as it can possibly go, and tears his gaze from her.

Together, standing hand-in-hand at the bottom of Malikah’s Well, they watch distant stars.

*

_ They stand hand-in-hand just inside the doorway to the Convocation’s meeting chamber. A long table waits in the middle of the room, its seats empty, its top bare. There is little remarkable about it save what it stands for. _

_ She takes a step forward, the sound echoing around the large chamber. Her hand leaves his and he watches her circle the table, her graceful fingers dancing across the backs of the chairs until she stops at one near the end. He moves to stand across from her and rests his hands on the table, still silent, still watching. _

_ “This is my seat?” she asks, her voice barely a whisper. _

_ He nods, unable to trust his voice to stay steady. He wants to shout with joy, to celebrate as loudly and openly as he can, but he knows she needs time to process this. Jubilation will come later, after the mantle of responsibility - of _ ** _power _ ** _ \- has finally settled. _

_ He is so incredibly proud of her. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapters 6+7+8 are driving me NUTS so here have this bridge!
> 
> Every time I try to write smut it's like my brain turns into those faeries from Sleeping Beauty -  
"Make it porn!"  
"Make it poetry!"  
_makes a mess_  
Next update after I get that sorted!


	6. Pendants II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note the changed rating and new tags! The next chapter will be lighter.

The hour is late when Emet-Selch makes his way to the Pendants, his heart heavy and his eyes downcast. Attempting to spend the night in his own bed had ended in restless anxiety as sleep proved elusive and sorrow overpowering; thoughts continue to plague him, memories and regrets and a mountain of self-loathing. His own empty home is not the haven it once was. 

This was all intended to be a distraction for _ her_, and yet _ here he is_, desperate for her to turn his thoughts to anything but the weight of guilt and loss that consume him. He knows seeing her will be hard - the Light within her is sure to upset him further - but it will be a most welcome alternative to the misery he finds in his own head.

Voices - her voice and another’s - make him pause. Glamoured in invisibility, he takes a few quiet steps down the Pendants’ hallway, his emotions caught somewhere between anger and trepidation. Jealousy swirls into the mix when he sees the Exarch’s hooded silhouette in her doorway, but he stays still, stays quiet.

“Nevertheless, I must ask one thing of you. That you survive this, no matter what.”

Rage blinds his vision. How _ dare _ he say such a thing, as he pushes her towards the next Lightwarden even as the Light swells within her? How _ dare _ he continue to play the good man, the _ hero _ _,_ when he has forced her into this fight?

Life is never fair, but to be painted yet again as the villain while the Exarch remains spotless makes him want to step up and play the part. 

Who lies beneath that cowl? What secrets is the anomaly keeping?

And how did he take Allagan knowledge and twist it to a purpose even Emet-Selch knows not?

“I’ll not keep you from your rest any longer. Take as much time as you like.”

Though it is a relief to see the man walk away, his words still leave a bitter taste in Emet-Selch’s mouth. He can only assume they have told her about the Light - it is impossible to hide it now, as it cracks and flares within her, as it repeatedly brings her to her knees.

She will ask him. She must.

He is not prepared for this.

Cursing the Exarch’s fading shadow, he knocks lightly on her door before letting himself in.

The Light within her is brilliant and blinding. It permeates her aether, saturates it, _ drowns _ it. She is close to fracturing; it will not take much to push her over the edge, but - 

That she stands unassisted is a miracle in and of itself. Any other soul would have turned long ago.

Perhaps he has misjudged. Perhaps she is strong enough to contain it, to surpass its power with her own. Perhaps she will prove him wrong, and the future he has planned for this shard will alter dramatically.

But should she fail - 

It would be kinder to slit her throat now.

There is no joy on her face, no pleasure at his sudden appearance. She leans her hip against the table and crosses her arms over her chest. “Did you know?”

He must give her honesty - he owes her that much. “That you would struggle to contain the Light? Yes. I assumed.”

“Will it kill me?”

The scowl that twists his face is automatic. “Not quickly.”

Shadows move in her eyes. “Like Tesleen,” she murmurs, but shakes her head before he finds the courage to ask. “Still keeping your secrets?”

“As I have told you before, what happens next depends on you. You either contain the Light and save Norvrandt, or…” He shrugs. “You do not. Back to the drawing board for the Scions.” He does not elaborate on what that future will look like, or her role in it.

“It will depend on Kholusia.”

He could easily point her in the right direction, save her the effort of looking. He knows what - _ who _\- the last Lightwarden is.

Guilt wars with anger, logic, concern. His feelings for her are inexplicable, the mess of emotions both aggravating and exhilarating. How long since he cared? How long since he took interest? He knows this is temporary - fleeting, ephemeral, transient - but he has not been so involved in another being’s life since - 

No. Only pain awaits him on that path.

“You are upset.”

He snorts. “Believe it or not, I have reason to be.”

“If you need someone to listen…”

The temptation is there, he cannot deny it. How easy it would be to sit with her, to close his eyes and talk, to walk her through every problem - every memory - but he _ cannot_. He cannot show such weakness, cannot take the risk that would come if he lets her in.

He must never forget he dallies with Hydaelyn’s chosen.

She sees the denial written plain on his face; her own disappointment is equally obvious even as she turns away. 

“We are in this for the distraction, are we not?” he says with a scowl. “We do not meet for _ conversation_.”

“If you weren’t scared -”

“Do not speak to me of fear,” he hisses, advancing towards her. She does not shrink back as he expects her to - rather, she moves forward to meet him. Anger sparks in her dark eyes as they stand chest to chest. “Do not presume to know what motivates me. You could not possibly -”

“I could heal you.”

“Heal - ?” Realization crashes upon him like a wave and he can’t stop his bark of laughter, though there is nothing humorous about it. “Tempering is not a _ wound_, hero! There is nothing for you to heal!”

“It is a blight upon one’s soul,” she snaps back, her face flushing red. “With enough power surely even that can be undone!”

“And where do you expect to find such power?” They are circling around the room, stalking each other like wild cats set to pounce. Her dark eyes latch onto his, anger and fierce conviction raging against his own disbelief. “Should you even construct a method to reverse it, where would you find such quantities of aether?”

“The two of us together -”

_ “Enough__.” _Fear sets his hair on end, pulls at his heart, strangles his breathing -

Something within him splinters. He turns from her to hide his face, pressing gloved fingers against his temples in an attempt to calm the frothing sea of thoughts below the surface.

Could she do it?

_ Does he want her to? _

Whence comes this denial, this dismissal, this terror?

Is it his?

_ Or is it Zodiark’s, like a leech, like an infestation, like a parasite latched onto his very being? _

He cannot say yes. He knows this, knows from his very core that denial is the only road he is allowed to take - 

_ But that does not mean it is the only one that exists. _

Composure comes slowly, in achingly small bits and pieces. She is silent as he forces himself to be calm - to breathe - to move past the idea she has planted inside him.

Regret is millenia too late. 

“I upset you.”

A denial forms, but he cannot bring himself to voice it.

He will not lie to her.

“I should not have come tonight,” he says instead. 

“You are running, Emet-Selch.”

He shivers. That _ voice__!_ Like a whisper along his spine, like velvet in his ears, it’s a voice she has never used with him before - something older, darker. When he turns to face her she is the same as she’s always been - but that reminder of what she _ could be _ lingers.

“Stay,” she says, and it is not _ quite _an order, not quite a request. She moves closer, into his space, and her hands are on his arms, along his back, under his coat. “Stay here tonight.”

His anger does not dissipate, but her voice - her touch - awakens something else in him, something far more feral. He grabs her wrists and pushes her back until she hits the table. He lifts her onto the surface as his mouth seeks hers; he is not gentle as he frees her of her clothing. He hurts her, _ bruises _her, but her stream of murmurs and moans only spur him onward. 

He hates her. 

He loves her. 

He loves how he _ feels _with her. 

Some part of him wants her to say his true name - wants to push her over the edge, to drive her to the point where she must demand he stop, to _ say it _with shame and anger and disgust - 

Even knowing it would not be the same, he cannot stop the craving. 

He forces her legs wide and pulls her hips to the edge of the table. His own clothing disappears with a thought as his fingers find her wet and wanting. He thrusts into her without a word as her dark eyes hold his, anger and desire flickering within. 

Why does she do this to him? Why he is furious - enraged - absorbed?

It’s that reminder, that flicker of familiar lurking just out of reach. He _ knows _ her, somehow, and the mix of known and unknown is equal parts tantalizing and terrifying. That she is willing - that she is _ eager _\- loosens the dam; his desire is a torrent, a raging river, and he would annihilate her before he lets her go. 

She winces as he pushes harder, moves faster, holds her tighter. One hand is around her neck as the other grabs her hair, forcing her head back. A whimper escapes her lips, a sad little sound she quickly cuts off, but he catches it and moves in closer.

“Too far, hm?” He grins as she closes her eyes and shakes her head. “Say the word and I’ll stop, hero.”

Her eyes fly open, anger sparking in their depths. Her mouth curls into a snarl at his challenge but she remains mute. 

“No? Still wanting?” He suddenly lets go and backs away from her, slides free of her and moves to the middle of the room. His smile is cold as he watches her twitch and bite her lip; her eyes are on his cock. “You want release? _ Beg.” _

Fury in her eyes and shame on her face, she slides from the table to her feet. “Emet -“

_ “On your knees.” _

She drops, her dark eyes full of every kind of heat he craves. “Please,” she whispers, her voice breaking. 

He saunters forward and takes her head in his hands. “Just a taste, for my Warrior of Light. Just...one…taste.”

Her eyes drop to his cock, hard and wet and so, so close. She opens her mouth and the tip of her tongue tests, tentative, tasting herself on him. 

“My good girl, my hero,” he croons as his fingers comb through her hair. Her face flushes again - pleasure? Embarrassment? Desire? He hopes it is all that and more. “You may have another - you’ve earned it.” 

She is voracious, she is hungry, she is _thorough. _He groans as he watches her, groans again as her tongue presses against the underside of him. Her hands wrap around his shaft as her mouth devours him, putting more pressure on all the right places. She would finish him if he let her, but he will not end the night here. 

“Say my name,” he murmurs as he brushes her hair back from her face.

She lets his cock slip out of her mouth with an audible _ pop_, leaving the head of it resting against her chin as she looks up to meet his eyes. “Emet-Selch.”

His reaction surprises him. He is jarred from desire, knocked free of his lust as the title - not his name, never his name - filters into the crack within him.

Not the name he wants. Not the name he _ needs_. In this place he is not the Architect, not a Convocation member, not the weight of all his crimes and the culmination of all his actions. In this place he is not Emet-Selch.

But he cannot be Hades here, either. Not with her.

If he takes her too far - if he hurts her - if he goes beyond what she expects - 

She would need him to stop. She would utter their safe word.

Can he push her there?

_ Does he want to try? _

It isn’t that he wants to hurt her - not like _ that_, not to the point of no return - but to hear his true name from her lips - 

To have someone say it with _ feeling _\- 

He cannot stop shaking as he pulls her to her feet, cannot stop the quiver in his fingers, his wrists, his knees. Insecurity chases doubt and he does not know what to do, how to proceed, how to vocalize the desire within him.

_ Should he even try? _

There is a power in names, in knowing the true face behind the mask, and he has worn face over face over face - his true form is almost lost to time, a memory even he can hardly conjure - but a name not spoken may as well not exist.

_ Has he lost himself? _

What remains, save memories he cannot bear to recall?

Nerves render him clumsy; he pulls her too quickly and she staggers, almost stumbles to her knees as he drags her to the bed. He doesn’t allow her time to recover, immediately shoving her face-first into the bed covers. She is bent at the waist, feet on the ground, and though he permits her to turn her head to one side he keeps one hand firm on her back, directly between her shoulders.

This is not excitement. These nerves are not passion or desire: nausea rolls his stomach, spins his head, clouds his vision. His palms are clammy and he cannot draw a steady breath.

Too late to stop. Too late to explain.

His free hand grabs one of her forearms and bends it backwards over her waist; she curses through clenched teeth as he puts pressure on her, feels her tense as she attempts to push away from him. “Are you sure you still want to play this game, little Warrior?” When she doesn’t respond he reaches under her and pinches her nipple, earning himself a hiss as he presses his cock against her backside.

“Bastard,” she spits, her eyes closed. Her gasp turns into a cry as he pinches and _ twists_.

“You know what to say,” he taunts, his voice high as one hand twists and the other pins her hand behind her back. “A single word and this ends.”

“I - won’t!” She winces. “I won’t! Emet-Selch, you ass!”

His vision speckles black and red. Desperation drives him even as revulsion gags him. His hold on reality begins to fracture. Who he is - where he is - what he’s doing - 

He can’t - 

Why can’t she - 

He must stop - 

She must -

_ Who is he? _

“Say it!” The crack of his palm against her bare skin splits the air, yet the only sound to escape her lips is a moan. “Say the damn word!”

*

_ “Hades, I presume?” _

_ The first time they met, assigned as partners in a class at Anyder. Her, so full of energy, and he, blindsided by the brightness of her soul - he cannot get enough of her. _

*

Fighting past his own shivers, he lowers his head to hers, staring into her furious, resilient, beautiful eyes. “Say the word!”

*

_ “Hades.” _

_ The night of their bonding ceremony, together on a rooftop overlooking Amaurot. Nothing felt _ ** _real _ ** _ yet, as though he’d wandered through the day in a happy haze, but her fingers were laced between his and the stars were never quite so beautiful and why did he feel _ ** _so small?_ **

*

“Say it!” He slaps her again but his heart isn’t in it; he cannot focus, cannot stay present. He’s crumbling even as he speaks, dissolving into memories he is not prepared to confront. “_Please _ -”

*

_ “Hades!” _

_ There was no time. The summoning was almost complete; aether spun inwards in a whirlwind, a maelstrom, an inescapable pull down, down, down - _

** _She _ ** _ was at the heart of it. _

*

He cringes away from her and collapses onto the bed, his head in his hands as a sob tears itself from his lungs. The memory flashes again and again, his gorge rising as glimpses of bodies long gone intrude upon his senses. They surround him - surround _ her _\- and the blood - the smell - the pure devastation is endless and ongoing. He is horrified, mute with terror as he finds himself circling, circling, circling in a memory he has avoided since his world ended.

He 

cannot 

get 

out.

He loses himself as his internal battle rages. The hopeless, soul-wrenching fear and ineptitude the memory conjured has wasted him, split him straight to the core and shucked what grounds him. He shivers and shakes, caught in a time and place that ceased to exist long ago.

As much as it hurts - as much as it ruins him - she is _ alive _ in that memory. She spoke his name, looked him in the eyes - _ she had been there_.

Until - 

Keening breaks the silence, a horrible, embarrassing, devastating sound he cannot stop. All control is wrested from his grasp as sobs wrack his body, as despair tenses his muscles, chokes his lungs, blinds his sight. He cannot move, he cannot think - nothing beyond what he had done - 

_ everything he had not done _ \- 

what he had said - 

_ everything he had not said _ \- 

and the price he paid -

_ the price he continues to pay - _

Soft hands whisper along his arms, his torso, his thighs. A quiet voice murmurs soothing sounds, a song he cannot decipher.

“Ascian.”

Silence. 

Hesitation.

Shame.

The urge to flee is quickly suppressed, replaced by a faint, flickering feeling in his core.

Warmth in his chest, spreading, sliding, steadying. His breathing calms; his shaking stops. Sweat dries on his skin as his muscles slowly, slowly release.

His hand catches her wrist quick enough to startle her; she squeaks a little noise of surprise but does not pull away. “Healing me?” Even to his ears, his voice sounds hoarse.

“Of course.”

He frowns but does not open his eyes. “I am - I am not hurt, hero.”

Her free hand cups his cheek. “Not where anyone can see, Ascian.”

Like a wound being lanced, that simple acknowledgement releases every emotion held in check, every hurt held tight. His breath shudders as he attempts to focus on anything save the gratitude that fills his chest. “You did not have to stay.”

“I did.” She pauses. “And it _ is _my bed.”

Guilt filters in as he lets go of her wrist. “I apologize.”

“Don’t turn inwards, you ass, or I’ll have to do this over again.”

His eyes fly open. He cannot remember rolling to his back, or her climbing over him, but she straddles his stomach as her hands hover over his chest. Blue waves of magic drift from her palms into him, soothing, calming, expanding - it is not a type of healing magic he is familiar with, but the fear and pain that dominated his mind have pulled back to their hazy, cobwebbed corners of his consciousness.

There is no judgement in her eyes, no scepticism or criticism or - even more damning - pity. Instead, a heady mixture of care and concentration dances across her features, occasionally intermingling with something he cannot name.

Her magic fades and she rests her hands on her hips, looking him over with a critical eye. Her skin is grey with exhaustion; sweat dampens her face and hair. He can only imagine how much energy she exerted to calm him. “I’ve done what I can, but it is only a temporary fix - healing this wound will take years.”

“I - I am grateful.” He hesitates, curses himself for hesitating, and forces the question from his lips. “Why did you not say - when I hurt you, you did not -” He cringes as words fail him, as embarrassment threatens to strangle every thought he has.

“I wanted you to stay.”

Simple.

Effortless.

She yelps as he reaches up and pulls her close to his chest, his arms wrapping around her and holding her tight. After a moment of stillness she relaxes on him, curling her head under his chin.

He does not deserve her.

Knowing how late the hour is, he cannot help but feel he should leave her to her rest. He shifts and attempts to sit upright, but she makes a sleepy angry sound, something between a mumble and a growl, and he desists. Sleep will claim him here just as easily as it would elsewhere - perhaps even easier, given that she is with him.

“My hero,” he murmurs, stroking her cheek with the back of his fingers. “What do you do to me?”

She is almost gone, in that space somewhere between consciousness and sleep, but he can just make out her mumbled reply.

“My villain.”

*

_ The world has begun to end. _

_ Hades is not proud when he presents his idea. He keeps his head bowed, his shoulders hunched; he looks to the ground as he gives voice to what may become their salvation. Every gasp of horror makes him cringe; every argument makes him rejoice. He _ ** _wants _ ** _ them to think of a better idea - he _ ** _wants _ ** _ them to convince him an alternative exists. _

_ He would give everything he has to forget the look on her face as he explained how they would save their star. _


	7. Kholusia

Several days pass before he goes looking for her again. She has been busy in Eulmore - undoing decades of his work - and now all of Kholusia seems to have rallied behind her. Even the arrogant, slothful fools have joined her side, though he honestly cannot blame them. The power she wielded in Lakeland is on display yet again; it is only too easy to see why the people of Norvrandt flock to her. 

The legend of the Warrior of Darkness has finally found a hero worthy of the name.

When he finds her north of Wright she is alone. Crowds buzz around the Ladder, their dedication and excitement clear even to his jaded eyes, but she stands off to one side. Their conversation after Lakeland replays itself in his mind, about the roles they play and the title she’d given him, and he cannot help his amusement. Is she not a puppetmaster too? The people dance to her tune just as they did his; the only difference is that she does not play dirges.

There is a whisper of anxiety as he approaches her, a moment when he feels awkwardly self-conscious. There had been a sliver of worry - a touch of overthinking - when he’d first considered talking to her again. After his episode in the Pendants he had been in the odd and uncomfortable position of having revealed an exploitable weakness to - as Elidibus would call her - an enemy. While he doubts she would use that knowledge to her advantage, there was still a moment - or many - where he had been entirely overcome by embarrassment.

His inner voice can’t help alternating between reality - she is a healer who has clearly dealt with similar behaviours in the past - and his own, wounded pride. 

Yet - 

She does not care for pride, or status, or what it means to take him into her bed. 

_ Why_? Why does she not care? Why does she favour him? Why does she continue to play these games, to keep secrets from her companions, to complicate an already complicated situation?

Where does she find the energy?

He supposes he should feel encouraged - clearly he is enticing - but questions fall like cards, one bringing down another and another and another until his entire foundation is set to crumble.

At least recent events have finally taken a turn for the better.

From his current view the top of Mt. Gulg is hidden behind the enormous cliff cutting Kholusia in two, but he knows it is still floating high in the sky, still surrounded on all sides by sin eaters, still impossible to reach. Whether or not the Scions fix the Ladder, they cannot grow wings: Vauthry’s ascent has placed him out of reach even of this hero.

Stalemate. 

It is not the result he expected, but it pleases him immensely. With her quarry out of reach she cannot continue the fight - this gives him a chance to regroup, to plan again, to mastermind an idea that does not involve her. If he could convince her to leave - convince her to return to the Source, perhaps, to guarantee Varis does not carry out his end of this dual-pronged plan - it leaves him free to resolve issues on the First. He has no idea what he’ll do to trigger a Rejoining, but that is no longer his biggest worry.

So long as she cannot reach Vauthry, she lives.

What else matters?

“You’re unusually cheery,” she remarks once he’s within earshot. 

He stops quite some distance from her, at once aware that while he cannot be too familiar - those damned Scions are always watching - it has been days since last they saw each other. The Light within her is more contained now, inevitably a result of that Oracle girl’s care, while new bruises and cuts on her skin attest to the battles she fought to liberate Eulmore. Excitement colours her cheeks and brightens her eyes; with the sea breeze in her hair she looks _ alive _and he - 

He _ wants.  
_

“Is today not a glorious day?” he replies, gesturing to the crowds gathered around the Ladder. “Work is being done, the sky is bright, and here we both are, together! Is that not reason enough to celebrate, hero?”

The half-smile that tilts her mouth surprises him, but her quiet words strike right at his heart. “I did miss you, Ascian.”

He makes as if to move to her and belatedly remembers they are not alone, drawing himself up short before he touches her.

“They are not likely to pay us any attention,” she says, turning to gaze towards the Ladder. “They are concentrated on their task, and for once they have asked me to sit out - a chance to recuperate, they said, but what matters is that my time is suddenly my own.” Her gaze slides to him. “If a fellow lonely soul were to follow me inside a nearby building, I dare say no one would notice.”

The lonely soul in question raises an eyebrow, both surprised and intrigued by her audacity. She turns before he can hobble together a reply, sauntering to one of the wooden buildings near the wall. The look she sends him as she closes the door sends a bolt of heat straight to his groin; he pauses, takes a moment to look around at the oblivious crowds near the Ladder, and throws all caution to the wind.

This is not wise.

This is not practical.

This could end badly for them both.

But as he opens the door to the dim, one-room building, as his eyes adjust to the dust and the gloom, as he shifts through crates and cloth bags and general clutter, as he sees her standing against the far wall, her hands lifting her skirt and her eyes full of fire - 

Damn what is wise, what is practical, what is safe. He wants her lips, her tongue, her skin beneath his hands. Secure in the knowledge that she is safe from the Light, he will take this chance to enjoy her without guilt or regret.

He catches her hand in his and turns it upward, places kisses in her palm as he moves closer to her. 

“No games,” she says, watching as he does the same with her other hand. “Not this time.”

They have broken every other rule - at this point it matters not what walls he puts up, what fiction he creates: she has seen almost entirely to his core. 

“No games,” he agrees. 

There is no rush, no need to move any faster than he has to. He takes his time, delighting in the feel of her: the softness of her skin after he removes his gloves, the taste of her lips as their mouths meet, the tautness of her muscles under layers of clothing. Her hands roam over him, under robes and jackets and small clothes, and as he divests her of her layers she does the same to him. 

Light streams through dust-covered windows, coating the room in a yellow-gold glow he is happy to guide her into. He leads her to an old couch under a window; a snap of his fingers and the dust is gone, the surface immaculate. He lies her naked along its cushions and feel his breath catch as she bends her arms back, resting her head on her hands. The curve of her toned body, the shape of her hips, the pink criss-cross latticework of old scars across her torso - his lips caress, test, wander across it all as he kneels at the end of the couch. Her back arches as he settles over her breasts, taking a nipple between his lips to make her moan, and he feels her fingers trail over his cheeks, his neck, his shoulders.

“I’ll have to keep that mouth busy,” he teases as he resumes his steady slide down her body. “We would not want them hearing you.”

Her eyes catch his, a game-for-anything grin playing across her face. “What do you have in mind?”

He bites her hip, earning another moan, before sliding onto his stomach between her thighs. “You told me you’d played these games before.”

“You want me to tell tales!” she says with a laugh. “Are you hoping to compare yourself to my past paramour? You shall not meet him, you know.”

“Have you never played these games with your companions?”

“The Scions?” She hums approvingly as he finally lowers his mouth to her folds, his tongue gently tasting her. “Never them, no. That honour goes to a man of Ishgard.”

He pauses long enough to encourage her. “Tell me.”

“Oh, but where to start?” One hand drops to the back of his head, curling through his hair, as the other clasps her own breast. “What does my villain want to know? How he’d duck beneath my skirts in alleyways, pull me into closets in others’ homes, how he’d take me on my hands and knees? Do you want the games, the words, the names he called me?”

All of it, every morsel, every detail, every idea he might be able to somehow make his own. “How did he make you his?”

“He - ah - snuck me into the Firmament.” Reliving her memories as he tastes her has her heated; her nails leave marks on her own skin and he is pressed ever closer, dragged into her as her thighs brace on either side of his head. He watches her eyes, her tongue, her hands as his excitement grows with hers. “We hid among the ruins.”

His tongue slides up her slit, teasing, and she curses. He grins and slips two fingers inside her, watching her tense as he slowly slides them deeper. “Did he taste you, too? I have heard tales of the talents those Elezen possess.”

“Mm.” Her face is flushed, pleasure widening her pupils, and her one hand tugs at her breast as she watches him dive between her legs. “He’d call me his starting course - he - he wouldn’t allow me to sit for dinner unless I - unless I -” She curses again and throws her head back, panting as he quickens his pace. “Oh, _ gods_.”

He can’t help but laugh. “Ah, my poor hero - there are no gods here! Pray to me, that I might deliver you quickly, for no one else can hear you now.” He slides his fingers up and down her slit, spreading wetness along her skin. “Tell me what you did when he tasted you.”

“I - I’d beg for more. I’d beg to repay him in kind.” She licks her lips before biting them hard, her glazed eyes on him as he traces patterns across her with his tongue. “_Bastard_.”

Smiling, he kisses her and pushes himself up so that he can kneel between her legs. She levers herself up on her elbows, eyes locked between his hips as he takes his cock in his hands and strokes it. 

“Tell me about your last time with him.”

Her eyes focus on him as he lines himself up with her, his cock poised at her entrance, waiting, wanting, teasing. She whines as he holds himself there but he shakes his head, eyebrows raised, waiting for the next part of her lurid story. “He - he made me wait. We were - ah - we were in the Count’s home -”

“Ah, the good Count Edmont? I’ve heard he sets an elaborate table. What meal did you have chance to pursue?”

She shakes her head, unwilling to name the man who’d played with her. “While the Count served dinner we - we went back to my room and - oh, like _ that _, please -” He’d begun to rock his hips back and forth, sinking deeper into her with every forward push. “He tied me to the bed and - and left me -”

He curses as he hilts himself in her, his excitement getting the better of him. What a game! To bind her and make her wait, to leave her naked in another’s house! He shifts his position and slowly begins to thrust into her. “And? How long?”

“Hours,” she pants, her eyes distant with the memory. “I could hear them talking, laughing - could hear him, loudest of all.”

“And when he returned? Were you wet for him? Ready for him?”

She swallows hard. “He’d lick me clean between courses - oh, yes, _ ah _\- but I’d soaked the sheets before dessert.”

“Should we try?” he teases with a grin, his pace steady as he leans over her. “I’m sure there is at least _ one _room in Syrcus Tower with a bed -”

“_Gods_!” She laughs and covers her face with her hands. “You villain!” When she looks at him again her gaze is softer, more tender, and it makes him catch his breath. “_My _ villain.”

He stops moving his hips to pull her upright, to kiss her hungrily. There is a new emotion dancing through his heart, something he cannot quite put words to - but as he rests his forehead against hers he knows something has changed. 

_ He _ has changed. 

She shifts first, her hands locking around the back of his neck as her mouth moves to his ear. “Do you know what it means to be ‘switch’, Ascian?”

“Ah.” He bites his lip, remembers to breath as memories flood his vision - 

*

_ A whip held in long-nailed hands - _

_wax cooling on his chest - _

_a feather brushed along his cock - _

_a collar around his neck tugged taught to bring him to his knees - _

_*_

“I - I might have an idea.”

“An idea, hmm?” Pleasure and admiration colour her voice, before she takes on a coy tone. “Does the former emperor prefer three fingers or a fist?”

“_Gods_.” His knees go weak and he braces himself against her. The imagery that phrase conjures!

“There are no gods here, Ascian.” Her hands are suddenly firm. She pushes him back - back - back until he is lying flat and she straddles his hips. He watches as she slowly lines herself up with his cock; his hands are claws against the couch cushions.

“My lord Elezen preferred toys, you know.” She sinks onto him slowly; he can feel his head spreading her and bites his lip to suppress a groan. “A strap around my waist for support, some oil to ease the way, and it’s amazing how quickly _ he _became the one who begged.” Her voice turns so, so sweet as she grinds against him. “Would you beg for me?”

“_Shit_.” He’s beginning to come undone and she laughs at the state of him. He _ would _beg - he would plead on his knees, grovel on his stomach if she asked him to. Her hands are on his chest as she rides him, as her speed increases, as the sound of them fills that small space. He reaches for her and she redirects him, leaning forward as she takes his hands in hers, pinning him against the armrest over his head.

“Ah, my villain.” She lowers her head, tilting it down as her hair hides her face. “You are _ mine_.” 

“I -” His voice chokes as she takes him harder, faster, deeper. His end is rushing towards him, inescapable and intoxicating, and it is all he can do to hold onto her hands as she pushes him closer, closer, _ closer_. “I love -”

The moment hits and his words are swallowed, gasped, lost in blinding brilliance. Her release follows his as she shudders atop him, her nails digging into the backs of his hands as she rides through wave after wave of pleasure.

When she tilts her head, parting that curtain of hair, her dark eyes catch his. Shrewd eyes, intelligent eyes, calculating eyes - 

She knows what he was about to say.

Cheers erupt outside their building just as she opens her mouth. Her head swivels to the door as they listen to the uproar nearby; he sees her grin in profile, sees the light spark in her eyes, and feels his breath catch in his lungs.

The Ladder is working. 

She dismounts without a word, moving quickly to their pile of discarded clothing. He watches her, aware he should say _ something _but unable to create even the smallest sentence. 

He has already said too much.

Finally dressed, she stands at the doorway, her hands in her hair as she loosely pins it in place. Those eyes - those dangerous, lovely eyes - meet his once again. She backs away, her expression something he cannot pin down: conviction, longing, and something else - something that drops his heart into his stomach.

“Mt. Gulg isn’t going to stop me, you know.”

Goosebumps run the length of his arms and legs. “Pardon?”

“I’m not going to leave Vauthry to his floating prison,” she says. “This doesn’t end here.”

“You don’t know that,” he says, but it’s a hollow wish, a child’s plea. What optimism he had is quickly melting away, replaced by sickly horror.

The smile she gives him is crooked. She opens the door and pauses on the threshold, her silhouette lit by the outside light as she glances over her shoulder. “Thank you for the distraction, Ascian.”

Long after the door closes he remains on the couch, fear coalescing around his heart. The elation and comfort he’d felt earlier have drained away, leaving nothing behind but dredges.

Why had her final words felt like a farewell?

*

_ He has rendered Hythlodaeus mute, a rare feat he takes no pleasure in. He would much rather his friend’s incessant chattering fill the silence, but the man is so very pale behind his mask. He sits upright on Hades’s couch, staring forward as though made of stone. _

_ As much as Hades wants to provide reassurance, he knows there is nothing he can say to render this truth any easier to swallow. “Lahabrea will make the announcement on the morrow. I thought - you deserve to hear this from me.” _

_ Hythlodaeus inclines his head. “Had the news been different, I imagine I would have appreciated that.” His voice, usually so loud and self-assured, teters, trembles. He hesitates before continuing, a pause that cuts as surely as a sword. “The Convocation is as one?” _

_ Hades looks away, turning his masked face to the opposite wall, but his friend catches his grimace and interprets it correctly. _

_ “I thought she might take issue with this.” _

_ If he pretends his heart is stone - if he erects walls and locks and bolts around it - if he blocks out all emotion - _

_ Saying it hurts no matter what he tries. “She left.” _

_ “The Convocation?” Hythlodaeus grabs his arm. “What do you mean, ‘she left’? Where did she go? Where is she?” _

_ Hades’s mask clatters to the floor as he covers his face with his hands, as sobs tear through his chest, as he finds himself pulled against his friend’s shoulder. He cannot say it, cannot form his lips around the words, but the thought repeats in an endless cycle of torment. _

_ She’s gone. _

_ She’s gone. _

_ She’s gone. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You show me your fav sexy Elezen and I’ll show you mine ;)
> 
> This was an impossibly difficult chapter to find the time to write; I rewrote it top-down thrice and almost scrapped it half a dozen times. Onwards, to greener pastures and angstier Ascians!
> 
> Thanks, as always, for reading!


	8. Kholusia II

She has wandered off with the Exarch. The two of them, alone together in the wilderness of Kholusia, doing gods-know-what out of sight, sets him on edge. He doesn’t think they would - but he doesn’t know -

What _ does _the Exarch stand to gain?

He’d been confident the day before, secure in his knowledge that even should they fix the Ladder they would not climb Mt. Gulg. Now, overhearing their ideas and seeing the people who have rallied to join them, doubt filters in.

What if this plan comes to fruition?

What if she climbs the mountain?

What if she overpowers Vauthry?

What if the Exarch knows more than he lets on?

That man _ must _understand what the Light is doing to her. He has to guess that he’s leading her to her death. For all his honeyed words, he is not being honest.

Emet-Selch feels the weight of his guilt. Does the Exarch?

He sees the two of them in the distance, approaching Amity from the southern cliff. They are not walking hand-in-hand - a small comfort - but the ease with which they converse tears at his heart.

Jealousy suits him badly.

She separates from the Exarch near Amity and he seizes the opportunity he’s given. Invisible to all, he rests a hand on her arm, feeling her tense, and leans down to whisper in her ear. “Come with me.”

She doesn’t say a word as they walk towards the Ladder, passing rocks and boulders and rogue Talos. If he stretches his imagination he can pretend they walk together, just as she had with the Exarch, but it is a feeble dream, a failed attempt at normalizing their strange relationship.

They stop behind one of the giant rock columns protruding from the earth, sufficiently far from Amity so as to not be overheard. He dispels his glamour and leans over her with one hand against the rock, close enough to touch her but holding himself in check. Her dark eyes watch his, barely visible in his own shadow.

The heat they’d felt the day before - the passion, the rush, the desire - has melted from them both. She is resolute, while he - 

He is beginning to understand his mistake.

“We’re near the end,” he says quietly. “You are decided?”

“There was never a choice.”

Another reminder that she follows orders well, even when they are not his own. “You could stop. Return to the Source. Leave Vauthry.” Even as he says it he knows it is hopeless. Ask her not to save the world? He might as well ask her Mother to play fair.

“I would not be the woman I am if I did.”

“_You will die_,” he says through gritted teeth. Desperation is rearing its ugly head and he fights to keep his voice quiet. “You, and the Scions, and everyone who has helped you - if you go after Vauthry, all of you shall share his fate.”

Her face turns very pale. “You threaten me?”

“_Never _ \- I only warn you.” He moves closer, hoping he can convince her by sincerity alone. “_Please_.”

“The Exarch -”

“Damn the Exarch!” Dropping his hands to her shoulders, he cannot help shaking her. “_He knows this truth_. He is leading you to your death!”

“Aren’t you, too?”

He steps away from her. Denial churns through him, denial and reluctance and mountain upon mountain of regret. Though he doesn’t say a word, he watches her face change, watches understanding dawn in her eyes.

He cares for her. Foolish, ridiculous, nonsensical - but his broken heart has somehow made room for this fractured soul.

Tempered or not, he wants her to live.

“Do not kill Vauthry.”

“Provide an alternative,” she whispers in that ancient, haunting voice. “Tell me how to save this world without destroying the Lightwardens. Give me another path.”

“There isn’t one.”

“So Vauthry dies.”

He growls, low and deep in his throat. This is a knot of his own making, a disaster he created from the very start. Now that the pieces are finally falling into place he has no idea how to stop them and no one else to blame. The sound of his fist slamming into the rock above her makes her jump, but his words unnerve her even more. “I could stop you.”

“You would have to kill me.”

Why is it so hard to breath? “I will not.”

“Then you have to let me go.”

*

_ “Then you have to let me go.” _

_ She stands apart from him, stiff-backed and formal, her face hidden behind her mask. He’d managed to find her before she left Amaurot, before she took to the countryside in search of those who would side with her. They are in an alley near the city limits, a dark, deserted stretch of city with towering walls on either side and very little light. Rain falls sluggishly around them, turning their robes into heavy, misshapen folds of cloth; her hair is plastered across her cheek and mask. _

_ He wants to wipe it away, to tuck it into her hood, but he knows she will not let him near. _

_ “Stay.” _

_ “You ask the impossible, Hades.” Misery colours her voice. “You ask that I either join with you or stand complicit in your deeds. You know I can do neither.” _

_ “To save our world -” _

_ “There must be another way.” Iron determination, unfailing, unrelenting. “I will not murder our people to save ourselves. _ ** _Never_**_.” _

_ He flinches. How could he not? He has never taken a life, never watched another being perish with his own eyes, yet this idea - this one salvation - would drown him in the blood of his people. His stomach churns with the thought of it and he clenches his teeth. He sees her turn to leave and panic overwhelms reason. His leap should have carried him to her, but he slams into an invisible wall and falls to his knees, winded, shocked, humiliated. _

_ He knows he is not strong enough to break this shield. Her power has always run a little deeper - a little darker - than his own. _

_ Her last words are a whisper. _

_ “Farewell, Hades.” _

*

_ Farewell…? _

It’s like an echo carried through millenia, like he’s standing before a different woman. It’s dizzying, disorienting, maddening; he can hardly bear it. The soul he once loved is not the woman standing before him now; this is an infuriating coincidence, further proof that his heart cannot make wise choices.

If he hadn’t talked to her - 

If she hadn’t approached him in Rak’tika - 

If he’d challenged her as Lahabrea had - 

He’d have missed this. He’d have missed the chance to _ feel _something, to have a purpose beyond plotting and waiting and regretting every choice that has led him down this path.

But - 

Is it worth the pain?

Has he not endured enough?

“Hey!”

She cringes as he turns his head. One of the Scions, Lahabrea’s infuriating puppet, runs towards them, fury in his eyes even at this distance. 

They are almost out of time.

He turns back to her, to the small, brave body bursting with Light, and makes his choice. “I warned you,” he whispers. “At the end, when everything else is gone - remember that I tried.”

“Wait -”

The Scion is almost upon them. Emet-Selch vanishes in a cloud of dark aether, her piercing, desperate eyes the last glimpse of her he sees.

Such a waste.

*

_ “Such a waste.” _

_ Lahabrea’s vitriol splinters Hades’s fog of depression. He shakes his head, refusing to be taunted into a confrontation. _

_ Their words do not matter. Their disappointment does not matter. _ ** _Nothing _ ** _ matters now. _

_ His head is in his hands as their voices flutter around him. Her empty Convocation seat is across from him, obvious and aggravating and so utterly unfair. _

_ The others will continue on without her. They are already making plans, filling in the gaps she left, and yet - _

_ And yet - _

_ “Emet-Selch?” _

_ His jaw clenches. Damn them. Damn them all. _

_ “I’m with you.” _

*

They aren’t aware he’s with them until the gun has already fired.

He would be lying if he claimed he didn’t enjoy it.

“To think that he went through all this trouble for the sake of a single hero.” He stares down at the Exarch’s prone form, at once relieved to finally put this mystery behind him, but - 

Would he not have done the same?

Had he not been tempered - had he possessed the ability to choose - would he not have done whatever he could to save her?

The sight of her crushes him.

Light aether has brought her to her knees. Pain is etched across her face, contorting and shrinking her. Her chest heaves with the effort to draw breath as Light spills from her, finally visible to the naked eye.

He’d warned her! He’d tried to turn her from this path! He’d been honest, heartfelt, sincere - and still! _ Still _she’d persisted!

“What a disappointment you turned out to be,” he sneers, but she _ isn’t_, not that way. 

_ If she’d only listened to him…! _

It is ironic that letting the Exarch carry out his plan would have saved her. Emet-Selch recognizes this, but that is not a path he will allow any of them to walk.

That is not a path _ he _is allowed to walk.

She is already beginning to fail. Heart, lungs, brain - all are succumbing to the massive amounts of aether coursing through her. She glows with it, radiates it, vomits it and curls into herself. He kneels in front of her, catching her gaze as he forces himself to look her in the eyes. She is in so much pain she hardly recognizes him; what words he has are for the benefit of the Scions, as he doubts she is aware of anything around her.

He cannot save her. Whether he wants to or no, this level of healing is so far beyond his ken to be unimaginable. If she and the Oracle cannot handle it he doubts anyone can.

Her lifespan is now measured in moments.

Before he leaves he throws out one last attempt, one last hope, and invites her to Amaurot. If she lives that long he’ll do what he can for her - take away the pain, perhaps. Keep her company.

Distract her.

He flees with the Exarch, his guilt already spiralling inwards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a lot of thoughts on tempering, choice (or lack thereof), obedience, and personal conscience. Have they lost personal agency due to Zodiark's authority figure (and his explicit instructions) or was the idea for the Rejoinings something the Ascians came up with on their own? Are they sympathetic beings who ended up tempered (to their own surprise) and were ultimately forced to follow Zodiark's will, or are they fanatics who let power corrupt them? How reliable are they when they tell their own history?
> 
> Reducing it to psychology 101, obediance to authority or conforming to expected social roles? Did absolute power truly corrupt absolutely?
> 
> I don't know. My bias leans towards the former, but I doubt it'll be cut so clear. Fingers crossed 5.2 takes us back to Amaurot and gives us some answers!


	9. Amaurot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter got a wee bit out of hand. Apologies for the length!

She is in his city.

_ Her city. _

She is an Amaurotian soul, is she not?

_ Was she not...? _

The last twenty-four hours have been a blur. The plan is coming together and he knows Elidibus would be so, so pleased - but Emet-Selch’s world is crumbling around him. He has no idea what he’s done - what he’s been doing - he thinks there are remarkably good odds he has not moved in hours, but he could not say what thoughts wandered through his mind. Time has become maddeningly elusive. 

He cannot stop picturing her eyes.

It all must stand for something.

_ Should he not stand for something…? _

The Exarch’s unconscious form is at his feet. The Miqo’te has curled into a ball; it would be a pathetic sight if only Emet-Selch’s heart could feel anything ata ll. He feels drained, blasted, expunged - as if someone reached inside his very core and scooped out everything that makes life worth living.

_ Why does she make life worth living? _

He has taken wives, lovers, paramours - he has flitted among the lesser beings on the Source and Shards alike, gracing beds both temporary and long-term. None of them had called to him like this Warrior of Light, like this daughter of Hydaelyn, this thorn, this rose - she is both power and poison, intermingling in his consciousness like a tangled string or a frayed thought. She is an intoxicant, a vice, his guiltiest of pleasures, and the withdrawal weighs heavy.

He does not simply miss her, no - the emotions that cascade through him are buoyed by the knowledge they must meet again.

It will not be the same.

Why hadn’t she listened to him?

_ Why hadn’t he listened to her? _

He can sense her, distantly, advancing through his recreated ancient city. She has separated from the Scions - no doubt splitting up to hasten their search for him - and the temptation to go to her is overwhelming.

Why not? Should he catch her alone, without those damnable companions, they will have a chance to talk.

One last chance…

Turning from the Exarch’s form, he steps into a conjured cloud of darkness and allows it to carry him across the city to the Aetheryte plaza. He floats high above the square, drifting almost lazily until he spots her.

The Light within is a beacon he cannot turn away from, a Siren’s call he is caught in, an undertow pulling him deeper. He knows it is wrong - it is dangerous - it is likely to be a mistake - 

One more regret. One more hurt in an eternity of pain. 

Bitter thoughts turn him spiteful.

He gives her no warning. His magic curls around her, smothering her voice and locking her limbs in stasis. Her wide eyes narrow as he lowers himself to stand in front of her; her fear is quickly replaced by anger. 

Trapped and tied and _ still _fighting him!

A snap of his fingers teleports them both from the plaza; they reappear in a small room nearby. Another snap and his magic releases her; he watches as she falls to her hands and knees.

“My invitation was for you alone.”

With surprising speed she is on her feet, staff in hand. He barely shields himself in time to deflect her first volley of power, gasping as it ricochets to the ceiling. Her second attack isn’t as quick; he manages to absorb it, consuming the Light aether with a scowl. Her third attack he reflects back at her with a flick of his wrist, regretting it immediately as the ball of aether knocks her to the ground. Her staff falls from her hands and he kicks it away, far from her reach.

“Stop this,” he snarls, striding towards her before she can regain her footing. It is an easy thing to grab her wrists, to pull her to her feet and pin her against the wall - but it is not so easy to look her in the eye. Anger bubbles to the surface, sustains him, makes him grit his teeth as she tries to break free. “If I wished you dead I’d have done it.”

“Where is the Exarch?”

Like a lance through his heart, her words shatter him. “Him? You ask after _ him_?”

“If you’ve harmed him -”

“Perish the thought. Your precious Exarch is unconscious but alive.” For a moment he considered lying - twisting the knife in her direction for once - but he has yet to lie to her. Starting now, at their inevitable end, would somehow belittle what connection still lingers. “Why are you here?”

“You know why, Emet-Selch.”

He’d crossed a line when he shot the Exarch. He knows that now, sees it in the hurt in her eyes, in the rage carved into her face. She’d thought this fight would remain between the two of them - that the Scions and others who helped her would be left alone - as if he hadn’t annihilated entire worlds to further his cause. 

“You wish to kill me?”

Her tanned skin turns grey. “Let me go.”

“That is not an answer.” He tilts his head to one side, simultaneously dreading and craving her reply. “Do you want me dead?”

“No.”

“Why are you here?” He watches her jaw clench, feels the tendons in her wrists tighten as she curls her hands into fists, and presses her harder against the wall. He shifts his position so his hips are against hers, pinning her body in place, yet still she is silent. “Is this a rescue mission?”

“The Scions want to kill you,” she whispers, her words sending a thrill of foreboding through him. “For all you have done - for the First, and every Shard that fell before. For the Exarch, and all we have lost to other Ascians.”

“I wasn’t asking about the _ Scions_. I was asking about _ you_.” Something in her eyes, the self-conscious set of her face, her hesitancy - he isn’t sure what enables him to understand, but it is a breathtaking surprise. “You _ still _think to redeem me?”

*

_ “You hoped for me to - what? Change my mind?” _

_ “Evil men are not born so. It stands to reason they may not die so, either.” _

*

Rak’tika - he’s caught in memories of Rak’tika. Before he’d joined her in the Pendants. 

Before she’d allowed him into her bed.

Before he…

“There is no redemption in my future,” he says, anger, frustration, and something new - something akin to shame - colouring his voice. “There is death, and lies, and the pain of millions of fractured souls. I will do _ everything _in my power to see this through to the end.”

“Why?” Had her hands been free, he knows she should have hit him. “Because you are tempered? Because Elidibus says so?”

“For all those I have lost!” he roars as his self-control shatters. “For all those who believed in me! For every soul I ushered to the bitter end! For every friend and loved one I might yet save! I will not lay down my life now, not after I have come so far!”

“You don’t even know that you can see this plan through! The Thirteenth is a void, a ruin! How can you possibly hope to rejoin that which has ceased to exist?”

His hands are around her throat in an instant. “Don’t. Don’t you _ dare _assume we have failed.” His rage is fueled by deepest, darkest fear: has he not wondered the same, in the depths of his shadowy Amaurot? Has he not used sleep as a buffer to the torrent of terror and depression that thought conjures?

To have come so far, only to be barred by their own mistake - 

To never return his people - 

To live without her forever - 

His fingers are gripping, gripping, _ crushing. _Her hands claw at his wrists, her nails drawing blood. Her legs kick at him, her knees against his thighs, but she cannot work the angle to hurt him. The look in her eyes only makes him angrier - how dare she still be furious! How dare she continue to challenge him, standing in his own home! This Warrior of Light, this weapon of Hydaelyn, this woman he admires - 

“H - Hades!”

*

_ “Hades!” _

_ There is no time. The summoning is almost complete: aether spins inward in a whirlwind, a maelstrom, an inescapable pull down, down, down - _

_ She is at the heart of it. _

_ Bodies lie around her, her faithful, her friends. Everyone committed to her cause has already given their life force to their creation, has already paid the ultimate price. She is the only one still alive. _

_ She has chosen the ruins of Akaedamia Anyder as her summoning place, in the auditorium she once called her own. She sits on the speaker floor, legs crumpled, mask discarded, skin so incredibly pale. Aether has begun to manifest as a galestorm; papers and books fly around and above her, adding to the disaster that is this ruined space. Holes gape in the ceiling and the walls; bookcases have toppled, chairs and desks slid forward like rocks in a landslide; her blackboard has fallen half off the wall, puncturing a deep hole in the floor behind her. _

_ He stumbles on his way down to her, sliding in the mess. His footing is not sure and he - he is unsteady within and without. He cannot look at the bodies around her, cannot force himself to count how many sided with her - _

_ Cannot force himself to recognize any of those masks. _

_ A little inner voice whispers to leave, to flee, to escape this space as quickly as he can, but he searched for her for _ ** _months_**_. To find her now - at the very end, when it is far too late - _

_ No. He will not run. _

_ He hits an invisible wall before he reaches her, two steps above the speaker floor. It is the same shield she’d used in the alley in Amaurot, put in place just in case - just in case he found her, just in case he made it this far. _

_ Had she wanted him to come? _

_ He presses himself against that shield, presses his hands against that blasted magic and stares down at her. Her aether is draining, faster now, joining the storm around her, and it is all he can do to stop from screaming. _

_ He can’t reach her. _

_ “You won’t want to see this,” she says. _

_ He tastes bile. “I know.” _

_ “I don’t want you to see this.” _

_ “I know.” Terror creates shivers along his skin, running down his arms and thighs, but he will not leave. Not now. “I won’t let you go alone.” _

_ “I was never alone, Hades.” _

_ He tears his mask from his face with one swift movement and presses his forehead against the invisible divide, feeling it’s cool aether tingle against his skin. It’s as close to her as she’ll allow. “I let you leave. I couldn’t see - I didn’t know -” He stops, gathers himself. He does not have time to blabber. “If I’d known I would drive you this far -” _

** _ “__You didn’t_** _**.”** Her voice is steady, though he knows not where she finds the strength. “This was never about you, Hades. This was always about what was right for our star.” _

_ “I -” The words die on his tongue. Wind buffets him, whips his robes around him, and he hears howling within it - screams nearby? _

_ Screams within? _

_ She must have bitten her lip during the creation, leaving blood smears along her teeth and lips; it turns her peaceful smile into something far more frightening. As she tilts her head back and closes her eyes, the inner voice telling Hades to _ ** _run, run, run_ ** _ becomes so much louder. _

_ “She is coming.” _

** _Run, run, run._ ** _ “She?” _

_ “Their Mother.” Her eyes open, clear and startlingly bright. “I love you.” _

_ The ceiling collapses before he can speak. He reacts automatically, lunging away from the massive slabs of falling concrete, metal, and glass. The noise is terrible and terrifying as the immense structure caves in on itself, bringing down walls and smashing everything below. Aether from her shield explodes and he feels himself tossed backwards, him and the bodies of his people flung high to the back reaches of the auditorium. _

_ In the midst of it all he hears howling, a cry of triumph and celebration, and he screams along with it, screams out his rage, his fear, his denial - _

_ His heart feels like to burst as a connection he has so long relied on - a binding, a bonded soul - is suddenly - _

_ Gone. _

*

He is on his knees, his head in his hands, his body curled inwards. The strange crying sounds filling the room stop the moment he realizes _ he _is their maker. Tears cover his cheeks; tufts of hair cover his knees. Slowly he forces his fingers to free themselves from his bangs, to lower down to the cool floor, but he cannot stop shaking. Tremors run up and down his spine, cascading down his limbs in waves, and he fights hard against the urge to vomit.

The day his world ended.

The day she died.

He remembers the Warrior of Light belatedly and forces his head up to look for her, but the room is empty.

He is alone.

*

_ “You do not need to be alone, Emet-Selch. Should you wish to work with us I believe it would hasten our goal considerably.” _

_ He looks down his nose at Lahabrea. “I doubt that. I shall take myself to the First and plant the starting seeds for Mitron to harvest. I do not need aid for this task, Speaker. The others are better suited elsewhere.” _

_ Lahabrea turns to their white-robed companion, displeasure obvious from his stance. “You approve?” _

_ “It is not for me to approve,” Elidibus says slowly. “Emet-Selch speaks the truth. The task he has taken upon himself can be done with his power alone.” _

_ “You know why he should not be on his own,” Lahabrea growls. “We all do.” _

_ It is so, so cold. Ice in his veins, ice around his heart, he manages to keep his voice light. “Enlighten us, Speaker.” _

_ The Emissary steps forward before Lahabrea has a chance, cutting him off with a wave of his hand. “It is only concern for our brother that motivates us, Emet-Selch. You have not been the same since Zodiark fell. Since -” _

_ “I am disappointed, of course,” he interrupts. He knows what the Emissary intends to say and does not want to hear it. “I thought our work at an end; this outcome is clearly not the one we hoped for. Are neither of you of the same mind?” _

_ “_**_Our_ ** _ bonded soul did not create the god that destroyed our world,” Lahabrea mutters. _

_ Emet-Selch doesn’t give him a chance. Dark, unrelenting power flows from him like water from a burst dam, slamming into the Speaker’s chest before he can so much as raise a hand. He dies before he hits the floor, a hole torn through his entire torso, and if his body hadn’t evaporated into dark aether Emet-Selch would have hit him again. _

_ It only takes Lahabrea moments to reform, whole and sound, and though he makes to charge forward Elidibus stops him. _

_ “Leave it be.” _

_ “He is unstable! He is a loose cannon who cannot be trusted! He is equally as likely to waste his time searching for her shattered soul as he is to aid our cause!” Lahabrea spits over Elidibus, the glob of fluid landing just short of Emet-Selch’s boots. “You’re a fool, Emet-Selch! Unhinged!” _

_ He ignores the man’s ranting, turning his attention instead to the silent Emissary. “I will depart forthwith to the First. Do not call for me. Do not send for me. Do not even try looking for me. I will notify Mitron when the next stage is ready for priming.” _

_ “And if we have need of you on the Source?” _

_ “Create your own solution.” _

*

The flaming, obliterated Amaurot he’d created for her to traverse proves little challenge for her and her companions. He isn’t surprised: she is more than a match for the isolated nightmares he throws at her. Had he been able to drop her into a perfect recreation - an unending hellscape with no resolution, only larger and more terrifying creations - he does not doubt she would have begun to falter. 

Now she stands before him, exhausted and filthy in the expanse of space over the recreated dying star. He hates to be here - hates standing in this nightmare, hates being forced to remember - but he hates facing her as an enemy even more.

“Fool. Who are you? No one. _ Nothing_.”

Said with a smirk, said with a sneer, said with anger and belittlement and every ounce of feeling he can muster to convince himself he truly believes it. She is not the first powerful woman to stand before him, not the first lover he has been forced to face across a philosophical divide. The similarities tear at him, distract him, and his attention veers between her and those damned memories.

The Light begins to break free before she reaches him. He laughs, a high-pitched maniacal giggle that is half relief, half horror: perhaps they will not battle! Perhaps she will turn into a sin eater before his eyes, relieving him from any final confrontation. Perhaps he will instead be forced to watch that beautiful, admirable soul turn into a nightmare beyond any he can create, watch as her spirit is twisted into something far more terrifying.

She falls with a thud, a dull, final sound in the silence above Amaurot.

He stands alone on that long expanse of space, watching her body flare white, and the loneliness within him spikes. His shoulders are hunched, his hands listless at his sides, but his face twists in a silent scream. 

This is what he’d planned for.

This is what he’d wanted.

Wasn’t it?

_ Isn’t it? _

Before he can move her body explodes with Light, creating a towering pillar of power that shoots into the heavens above. He cringes back, covering his eyes with one hand, but drops it when he hears her voice.

How…?

It is no longer the Warrior of Light in front of him, no longer that familiar soul he is inexplicably drawn to, but instead - 

He cannot draw breath, cannot move, cannot speak. His heartbeat fills his ears as he stares at the Amaurotian woman in front of him, at the soul he finally - at the end of it all - _ finally _recognizes.

Fragmented and shattered and still - _ still _\- 

They’d done this dance once before, millenia ago - back when the world was whole.

Back when _ she _was whole.

He blinks and _ she _ is gone, replaced by the Warrior of Light he has grown to know far too well. She is no less resolute, no less determined, and as the Light around her disappears he feels fear for the first time. Her soul is brighter, heavier somehow, and he knows she is _ more _than she’d been a moment before. 

Denial hits him square in the chest. It cannot be - not now, not when he is so close - not when they face each other - when they stand ready - when the future of this star hangs in the balance - 

He must push on. For those he has lost - 

For those he might return - 

Zodiark will allow nothing less.

The end is coming, undeniable and unstoppable. They have all played their parts, and this - _ this _is the future he carved for them all. 

Though he feels the smallest touch of satisfaction when he reveals his true name to her, it is quickly eclipsed by desperation and rage. Does she recognize it? Does she know, truly, who he is? Who she once might have been?

Does she understand that this entire shattered future is because of her?

Hades leaves the trappings of lesser beings behind and claims his true form, slipping into the familiar body as easily he slips on his gloves. 

There is no alternative now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I write this entire fic to get another shot at doing a summoning Hydaelyn scene?  
_maybe_
> 
> To be fair - I like what I wrote in Birds of a Feather. It fits with the fic and conveys what I want it to. I simply reread it after posting and found myself thinking _is 'good enough' really that good_
> 
> So here we are, nine chapters in and finally content with that scene! Onwards, to their happy? sad? whatever it might be? ending!


	10. Amaurot II

_ Time moves differently on the Shards. When Emet-Selch returns to the Source he finds the star recovering from what the people have taken to calling “Calamities”; they have just endured their third Rejoining and the land is slow to recover. Ash hangs in the sky like flies; half the land is covered in sluggishly moving lava. The very air stings his throat, his eyes, his nostrils - it is the Final Days all over again and he hates every part of it. Compared to the sweet darkness of his abode on the First this is hell reborn. _

_ “You are prepared to play your part?” _

_ Emet-Selch shrugs. His readiness is meaningless; there is a job to do and he means to see it to completion. The Emissary has asked for the creation of an empire, a massive request to create technology they will utilize in further calamities, and Emet-Selch knows he is best-suited to this task. It will be a long, arduous undertaking, one he doubts will proceed flawlessly, and already he misses the silence he prized in the Tempest. _

_ Elidibus steps in front of him, drawing his gaze away from the scorched land around them. “We are closer than before - already these souls shine brighter.” _

_ “They are dim compared to what we lost.” Boredom coats his voice; he does not care. What does it matter? What does any of this matter? He has endured the end of his world and the deepest, harshest betrayal - unless these Rejoinings can provide him with answers he does not want to hear of them. _

_ “Ha -” _

_ “Call me Emet-Selch or call me nothing at all.” He turns away, to the blasted hills beyond - to the land that he must somehow turn from rubble into an empire. “The man you knew is gone.” _

_ “A pity - I liked that man.” _

_ “As did I.” _

*

She wins.

He falls.

After all this time - 

After everything he has done - 

What a fool he has been.

*

Standing above Amaurot, the rising sun setting the sky ablaze, he has eyes only for her. The demolished buildings fade into the background, grey husks from an age long past, from lives long ended.

There is a hole through his chest, a wound he knows is fatal. He expects he should feel sorrow - regret - dismay - rage - but -

She stands before him, triumphant and tired, and his heart holds only pride. If he had to be bested by anyone, it is fitting that he be bested by her.

He opens his mouth to speak but she stops him with an outstretched hand. Magic suddenly pulls at him, surrounds him, catches his aether in a vice. Her face is red with exertion, her eyes bright with determination, and he gapes in amazement as blue aether crosses the divide between them. 

Healing magic…?

Not enough power, not enough time. He shudders as she shrieks, as her hands twist in front of her, as what remains of her power flickers. His own hold on consciousness is fraying, slipping - every conscious moment is a moment he fights for.

“Don’t you dare,” she snarls. “Don’t you dare just _ give up _ after all of this.”

He shakes his head, shocked beyond belief. “I tried to kill you.”

“That makes us equal.” Her power wobbles, falters, and the blue aether stretching between them disappears. She gasps and shakes her head, her breath shuddering out in waves as she throws him one last lifeline. “Out of time. Out of aether. Collapsing - _ so much damage_. Not - yet - !” 

*

_ “And where do you expect to find such power? Should you even construct a method to reverse it, where would you find such quantities of aether?” _

_ “The two of us together -” _

*

He does the only thing he can think of: he throws one hand towards her, feeding her his own dark aether. Curses flow from her mouth like water out a spout, but sounds quickly turn to fuzz as his world goes black. He doesn’t have time to explain - to thank her - to tell her who she truly is - but as the ground comes up to meet him he discovers his biggest regret is not that he failed to bring about the Rejoining - 

Rather, that she saw him try.

*

_ Allag has fallen, destroyed by earth and stone. Emet-Selch returns to the First under the guise of helping Mitron, but he takes himself far, far from the lands of people. To the deep recesses of the Tempest, malms and malms below habitable levels, he returns to the shadowy city of Amaurot - his recreated paradise, his home built of aether and memories. It is a metropolis of lights and towering buildings, of delicate arches that spiral up towards the sky, of greenery that grows with and around every structure. It is a city of shades, a city of echoes, a city always poised on the eve of the end. _

_ This recreation is almost entirely faithful: every stone, every brick, every leaf, every soul - _

_ Except hers. _

_ He retreats to the apartment they once shared in the core of the city. Though it has been centuries since last he stood in this space, it is still _ **_home_**_**.** _

_ If he pretends she has merely stepped out - _

_ If he pretends she is simply asleep in the other room - _

_ If he pretends he never suggested they create a god, never moved forward with his plan, never forced her to stand on the other side of an impassable divide - _

_ It is almost as comforting as it once was. _

_ In the darkest depths of the sea, wrapped in solitude and silence, Emet-Selch sleeps among shades. _

*

If this is death, it feels strangely like to waking. Instead of darkness there is a grey, muddled light, like dawn through curtains on a rainy day. His mouth is parched; his head aches; his chest feels as though someone has jumped on it incessantly.

He had always assumed death would hurt less than life, but he has been wrong quite often of late. It would not be a surprise were he mistaken again.

Consciousness comes to him in waves. He notices new feelings, new sensations, and slowly begins to catalogue them. The air is warm, though not uncomfortable. His skin is bare, naked to the world, but he is not overly concerned by his lack of clothing. More alarming by far is the realization that his wrists are bound behind his back.

He tests the rope, gently, and finds it made of some form of aether he cannot dispel. Physical strength has no effect save to chafe at his skin; his own magic is weak, still recovering from his final, failed confrontation.

Willing himself not to panic, he stretches his consciousness to the rest of his body. His knees are bent; his ankles are beneath him. Attempting to move is again fruitless: more ropes bind his ankles to the ground, locking him in a permanent kneel.

It is only when he moves his head from side to side that he realizes the grey light is due to a blindfold over his eyes. 

He must not be rash. He must not jump to conclusions. He must consider, weighing the possibilities, and determine the best path to win his freedom. Surely this is not inescapable!

“Hades.”

A sob tears itself from his chest. He knows that voice! What madness…?

The blindfold is removed with a quick tug and he squints at the light beyond. It takes long seconds for his eyes to adjust, long moments of silence that stretch as he desperately blinks away tears. 

The Warrior of Light stands some distance away, her arms crossed over her chest. She is thinner - strained - and bruises from their fight turn her bare neck and forearms a mottled mix of green and grey. Her face is expressionless - only her eyes hold any emotion.

“You,” he says stupidly, but the amazement will not leave him. The Light aether which threatened to consume her may as well have never existed - there are no cracks, no flares, no hints that anything was ever wrong. Instead her soul shines brighter somehow, more like to the souls of his people than ever before, and it is unmistakable: she has the soul of the woman he’d loved - the woman he continues to love. 

_ All this time…! _

“Me.” 

Though he is a fountain of questions, only one manages to escape the shock which freezes his tongue. _ “How?” _

“Bequeathing me a portion of your aether was not the smartest impulse you could have had, but it saved your life. Luck let you lose consciousness before you gave me too much.” Her dark eyes roam over him, assessing, cataloging. “It was not an easy healing, nor a quick one. You’ve been asleep for some time.”

Time is meaningless; he would wave that worry away were his hands free. _ When _ does not matter - _ why _is the answer he needs.

“I deserve to die.”

Her face hardens. “You think - after all you’ve done, every world you’ve destroyed and life you’ve ended - you deserve to leave any form of punishment behind? Death is an escape, Ascian, and I will not grant you it. There is a price to be paid and I expect you to pay it for the rest of your days.”

He looks down at himself, at the ropes made of Light aether, at the enormous pink scar across his pale chest. Belief is slow in coming; _ the rest of his days _ does not seem a lengthy amount of time, given his present company. “I owe you that.”

“What you owe…” Her voice trails away. “It is impossible to quantify. Entire worlds, Hades - I can’t even comprehend - !” 

He flinches as her voice breaks, but his heart sings at the sound of his true name. He is caught somewhere between relief - the most immense, overwhelming, overpowering relief he has ever felt - and stomach-churning shame. He wants to cry - to laugh - to fling himself at her feet and beg her forgiveness - but he knows she is not the one he must convince.

“The Scions?”

“Have no jurisdiction here. Your fate was turned over to the Crystal Exarch - and he agrees with me. From the moment you are well enough to leave your bed, you are in my care.” She says the word _ care _as though it is anything but. “The Exarch extends you a choice, however; he understands that the amount of work you owe this Shard - and every other - is near-limitless. Should you feel you are not up to it…”

“He’d kill me?” A chill runs through his veins, though he struggles to imagine the Exarch murdering anyone in cold blood. 

“No. I would.”

The floor tilts; he is glad he’s already on his knees. After everything she has been through - everything she has suffered - he cannot ask that of her.

“I’m sorry.”

She snorts. “Words are air. Actions speak much louder.” Her boots echo around the nearly-empty room as she takes a few steps forward. “Before anything else, I will have the truth from you: why did I feel as though I recognized you?” Frustration creases her forehead. “From the very first - when you revealed yourself to us in the Crystarium - I _ knew _you. You can’t tell me you didn’t feel the same. What was I, Ascian? ”

“A citizen of Amaurot,” he says, his voice barely a whisper. There is so much to tell her - so much he could say - but he recognizes now is not the time. “A Convocation member.”

“The Fourteenth.”

It isn’t a question, isn’t something she doubts, but he nods anyway. She is clever enough to put together the pieces, clever enough to see why she is still - why she has always been - Hydaelyn’s chosen.

“And us, Hades? What were we two souls?”

He falters. She has to know - she has to guess - why she asks him this is beyond his reasoning, unless - 

She narrows the gap between them and squats in front of him, resting her forearms on her knees. “You said it once, back in Kholusia. Why is it so hard now?”

He had not tried to kill her back in Kholusia. “I have done - horrible things. Nightmarish things. You - you do not want -”

“You will not put words in my mouth or thoughts in my head,” she says, her voice quiet but firm. “I know what you’ve done. What I want is for you to answer my question.”

What has he left to lose? 

“You were my life. Before the Final Days - before our world ended - I would have done anything for you. Everything, for you.”

“But you didn’t.”

“I -” He hangs his head. There is no defence he can make. How does one explain the cost of pride, the fear of failure, the need to prove oneself? How does he explain the feeling of being tempered by the first god - to retain his intelligence, to possess a mockery of self-control, to have every choice already made for him - 

He will not point fingers. Zodiark was born of his own mind.

“I believed you would change your opinion,” he murmurs. “I believed, once we created Zodiark, you would see why we needed Him.”

“But by then you were tempered,” she says, her voice equally low. “My open disapproval would only be seen as destructive - a risk to your new god.”

“I looked for you. For months and months - after the second sacrifice, when your body wasn’t recovered - I searched. Every spare moment - every chance I had -”

“What would Zodiark have allowed you to do, had you found me?”

He has no idea. He believed, once, that he would have the power to defy his god’s will - but after millenia of following it is hard to know where his thoughts end and Zodiark’s orders begin.

Her fingers reach across the space between them and rest delicately on his thigh. “I said once before that tempering is a blight upon one’s soul. I knew when I started your healing that it was all or nothing - if I could not remove it, I would not continue.”

The silence is immense. He gapes at her, completely speechless as her implication settles in. Disbelief wars with what he knows of her: as he has never lied to her, she has never lied to him.

No longer tempered?

No longer bound?

No longer in servitude to a broken god, a creation run rampant, a bloodthirsty being who he could never satisfy, whose hunger he could not sate, who promised and promised and promised and took and took and took - 

_ He is free? _

“You - you could not -” 

She interrupts his stammers with one finger under his chin, directing his gaze to her. Her eyes are dark stones, serious and sombre. “All or nothing, Hades.”

He understands, as hard as it is to believe. There can be no half-measures, not now. Not between them. As she worked to heal him - entirely, with unrelenting determination - he must dedicate himself to this new future without hesitation.

He owes it not only to her, but to those he could not save - and to those he now has a chance to fight for.

“All,” he says, his voice steady, his gaze direct.

“That’s my villain,” she murmurs, a smile finally gracing her face. She stands and takes a few steps back. “You are almost healed. The Exarch and the Scions will want to question you.”

“Of course.” While he will not look forward to it - it will be uncomfortable and aggravating to find himself at the mercy of those he mocked and attacked - he realizes the necessity. 

“Things will change once you leave this room,” she continues. Some of her confidence seems to lapse; she bites her lip, staring hard at the floor before she continues. “I - I think you should know: I did inform the Exarch that I am not - _ impartial, _I suppose - to you and your whereabouts.” 

“Ah.” He schools his face into a mask of detachment as his thoughts run amok. “The poor man.”

A red flush creeps up her cheeks. “He was - well. _ Not impressed _ doesn’t quite cover it.” She rubs the back of her neck with one hand, looking more like a bashful child than the Warrior of Light and Darkness. “He _ may _have been disgruntled enough to let it slip at breakfast the next morning.”

“Oh, dear.” Is that a laugh or a scream building in his chest? “All of the Scions know?”

“They know _ something _passed between us, yes.” She hesitates, a pause that makes his heart skitter. “Whether or not that continues…”

Forget the Exarch, forget the Scions, forget anyone else who might have their nose in his business - _ this _is what matters. He shifts as much as he is allowed, his knees already numb to the hard floor beneath him, but he doesn’t dare ask the question on his tongue. 

As grateful as he is to have this chance at reparation, if she refuses his favour - if this game they have played is at its end - if he must watch her move on with life without him - 

For the very first time she is insecure. “When we were together - was it me you wanted? Or was it the memory of her, the woman I once was?”

He answers without hesitation. “You - without a doubt, every time - it was always you.”

Her smile, though quickly hidden, buoys his heart as high as it’s ever been. She looks away, seeming almost embarrassed by his honesty. “I’m - I’m relieved.”

“What are we now?” he asks quietly, when it is clear she is waiting for him to speak. “Jailor and captive?”

“Better jailor than murderer.”

“And?” He refuses to be waylaid or distracted, refuses to be caught in word games. Recognizing she has the power to refute him is both terrifying and freeing - he will push, if he must push, and he will ask the damn question if she needs to hear it. “Are we more than that?”

“Haven’t we always been?” she says quietly. “Finding you felt like - like holding a favourite book in my hands, like tasting something from my childhood, like -”

“Like coming home,” he finishes for her, “after the end of the longest, most difficult day.”

“Yes,” she says. “Like that.” He hears her take a shuddery breath and watches as she straightens her shoulders. “It will not be the same.”

“I wouldn’t want it to be.”

“Hades -” She cuts herself off, purses her lips. He sees the battle warring in her mind, watches the emotions flicker across her face and behind her eyes, and hangs his head with a snarl of frustration.

He will prove himself worthy of her. He must. If not today, if not tomorrow -

“You will listen?”

His head snaps up as his eyes meet hers. There is a light within - a glimmer, a hint of something he dares not name.

“Yes,” he breathes, barely daring to hope.

“You will follow orders?” She moves towards him, slowly, purposefully, her eyes full of that look that terrifies him, consumes him, electrifies him. It had been there in Lakeland, in Syrcus Tower, in her room and in Kholusia. She’d had that same look in Amaurot before the world began to end - that warming, wonderful, welcoming look, that glint that called his soul home.

“Gods, yes.”

One corner of her mouth twitches. “You will tell me to stop, should I take you too far?”

She hadn’t given him an answer, back in the Pendants when their roles were reversed. She hadn’t thought he could do it.

Hades, on the other hand, knows better. 

“Yes.”

With a snap of her fingers she is naked in front of him. Her body is bruised, injured, scarred - and he wants it, wants every inch of it, wants the soul inside and the mind that comes with. He wants to be good to her - to follow her orders - to pleasure her as he knows best.

Unabashedly and unequivocally, he wants to love her as he once had so, so long ago.

She kneels in front of him, her hands resting on his thighs, and leans close. “If you should wish for me to stop,” she croons, her lips against his ear, “you need only say ‘Mother’.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO.  
I wrote chapter 2 and this chapter together back in September, and I've been trying to figure out how to get this train from point A to point B ever since. I think it was mostly on the tracks, and I'm so grateful for everyone who stayed along for the ride.
> 
> Thanks for reading, leaving kudos, bookmarking, commenting, everything! You all are great, and thanks for indulging me in this fluff!


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